MAX  P EMBERTON 


The 
Fortunate  Prisoner 


BY 

MAX  PEMBERTON 

Author  of    "The  Diamond  Ship,"    "A  Puritan's  Wife, 
"The  Gold  Wolf,"  "The  Giant's  Gate,"  "Sir  Richard 
Escombe,"  "The  Show  Girl,"  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

MAX    COWPER 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


.    OF  CALIF.    LIBRARY,    LOii  ANGELES 


Copyright,  /pop, 

BY 
MAX  PEMBERTON. 


'A  Fortunate  Prisoner. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I — John    Canning   Comes    Out    of 

Prison 7 

II — Abraham  Wesson  Receives  His 

Client            .         .         .         .  15 

III — A  Retrospect  and  Afterward       .  25 
IV — The    Little    House    on    Charles 

Street            .         .         .         .  31 

V — All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men  37 

VI — The  Journey  into  Suffolk         .  51 

VII— The  Beacon         .        .        .         .67 

VIII — An  Island  Lover      ...  74 

IX — Jesse  Visits  the  Castle         .        .  79 

X — Flight  Follows  Discovery        .  88 

XI — Jesse  Questioned  by  Her  Father  94 

XII — Japhon  Fearney  Asks  a  Question  108 

XIII — A  Rendezvous  upon  the  Mainland 

and  Afterward         .         .         .  115 

XIV — The  Coward  Makes  an  Effort      .  124 

XV— The  Fair  at  the  Castle        .         .131 

XVI — Jesse  Revisits  the  Long  Gallery    .  141 

XVII — Wisdom  of  the  Simple         .         .  153 

XVIII — Japhon  Resolves  upon  Silence  .  163 

XIX — The  Resolution  is  Reconsidered    .  176 

XX — Jesse  Revisits  the  Castle  .        .  191 


2131985 


CONTENTS 


XXI — The  First  Stone  ....  202 

XXII— The  Effigy        .         .         .        .  212 

XXIII — A  Ship  of  Shadows      .         .         .  229 

XXIV — The  Messenger          .         .         .  241 

XXV — Japhon  Sails  for  Holland      .         .  250 

XXVI — There  is  Some  Talk  of  Paris  and 

the  East       ....  263 

XXVII— Jesse  Hears  the  Truth       .         .  278 

XXVIII— The  Chateau  de  Nivres      .        ".  294 

XXIX— The  Riddle  of  the  Chirade   .         .315 

XXX— The  Ship  of  Fate     ...  327 

XXXI — Jesse  Goes  to  London  .         .         .  341 

XXXII — Abraham    Wesson  .Returns    from 

His  Holiday         .         .         .  349 
XXXIII— The  Prisoner  is  to  be  Called  For- 
tunate     .        .        .        .         .  358 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Jesse Frontispiece 

Her  response  was  a  grave  inclination  of  the  head 

and  a  swift  passage  to  her  own  door  ...  36 
Stooping,  as  the  sailors  closed  about  him,  he  caught 

Jesse  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips  .  .  .  228 
Voices  came  to  them  as  sounds  muffled  afar.  They 

were  afraid  to  speak — the  very  splash  of  the 

oars  echoed  weirdly  on  the  still  air  .        .    336 


BOOK  I 
THE  CONVICT. 


I 


The     Fortunate    Prisoner 

CHAPTER  I 

JOHN  CANNING  COMES  OUT  OF  PRISON 

THE  two  men  left  New  Scotland  Yard  together, 
and  coming  round  by  way  of  Westminster  they 
turned  up  Whitehall  and  walked  briskly  toward 
Charing  Cross. 

Of  the  two,  a  passer-by  might  have  named  that 
always  cheerful  soul,  Benjamin  Crabbe,  as  the  more 
desirable  acquaintance.  His  round  boyish  face  did 
not  speak  of  prison,  or  its  servitude.  He  carried 
no  burdens  of  self-reproach  upon  his  memory,  nor 
was  his  mind  troubled  by  those  of  conscience. 
When  a  judge  and  a  jury  had  agreed  that  Benjamin 
Crabbe's  financial  operations  as  practised  upon  the 
race-courses  of  England  were  worthy  of  penal 
servitude,  the  merry  fellow  received  his  sentence,  as 
he  now  received  his  freedom,  with  a  smiling  face. 
After  all,  no  honest  man  had  suffered  by  his 
roguery;  no  woman's  heart  been  broken.  Benjamin 
Crabbe  could  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  world  and 
declare  upon  his  solemn  word  of  honor  that  this 
was  so. 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

John  Canning  possessed  no  such  ready  claims  to 
casual  sympathy  as  those  enjoyed  by  his  happy  com- 
panion. He  looked  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to 
the  left  as  he  walked,  but  kept  his  eyes  straight  be- 
fore him  as  though  they  sought  a  goal.  Thirty- 
nine  years  of  life  had  done  him  much  mental  and 
some  physical  injury.  His  gait  was  firm,  but  his 
cheeks  were  hollow;  and  he  made  little  of  that  fine 
figure  which  had  been  so  conspicuous  on  the  banks 
of  the  Cam  nineteen  long  years  ago.  The  face 
itself  deserved  a  verdict  more  reserved.  It  had 
rarely  failed  to  cast  a  spell  upon  both  men  and 
women  in  the  old  days — a  bold,  classic  face  with 
wonderfully  clear  blue  eyes  and  a  Norseman's  hair. 
Here  were  intellect  and  ambition  clearly  marked; 
swift  sound  judgment,  but  pre-eminently  shrewd- 
ness. 

Now,  these  two  had  been  released  from  prison 
upon  this  morning  of  May  in  the  year  1907,  and 
for  a  little  way  they  set  out  upon  the  same  road. 
John  Canning  walked  it  with  long  swinging  strides 
as  though  hastening  to  a  destination;  Benjamin 
Crabbe  with  quick  shuffling  steps  which  seemed  to 
resent  his  companion's  haste.  Not  until  they  had 
come  to  the  corner  by  Charing  Cross  did  either  call 
a  halt,  for  the  shadow  of  prison  still  lay  upon  them 
and  darkened  their  path. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Canning,"  said  Ben 
8 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Crabbe  at  last,  "if  we  go  on  in  this  way,  they'll 
think  we're  running  from  the  'tecs.  Ain't  you  go- 
ing to  have  a  drink  or  something?  I  was  thinking 
of  that  all  last  night — a  glass  of  beer  at  Charing 
Cross  and  some  of  my  pals  to  drink  it  with  me. 
Well,  they  ain't  here,  and  let  'em  go.  I  shall  get  on 
all  right  without  'em,  and  you  ain't  no  better  off. 
Suppose  we  have  a  glass  and  forget  all  about  it. 
This  sun  makes  a  man  feel  like  it,  now  don't  it, 
truly?" 

John  Canning  came  to  a  sudden  halt  and  seemed 
to  remember  his  companion's  existence  for  the  first 
time  since  the  gate  of  New  Scotland  Yard  had 
closed  upon  him. 

"Don't  get  drinking,  Benjamin,"  he  rejoined 
quickly,  "you'll  be  in  trouble  again  if  you  do. 
Where's  the  man  you  spoke  about  ?  Where's  Nance  ? 
Didn't  you  tell  me  you  expected  them?" 

"So  I  did,  and  precious  little  good  it  done  me. 
Wait  till  I  see  the  gal  and  have  it  out  with  her. 
They're  all  alike,  Mr.  Canning ;  never  trust  a  woman 
when  your  back  is  turned.  But  a  gentleman  like 
you  has  found  that  out  long  ago,  I'll  be  bound. 
You  don't  believe  over  much  in  the  women,  now  do 
you,  Mr.  Canning?" 

"I  will  tell  you  to-morrow,"  said  Canning 
quickly.  "Meanwhile  I  must  have  a  cigar,  Ben- 
jamin, one  of  the  best  that  London  can  give  me. 

9 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Do  you  know,  it  is  more  than  five  years  since  I 
smoked  a  cigar,  and  I  have  been  looking  forward 
to  this  particular  cigar  for  hundreds  of  days.  Let 
us  go  and  buy  one — with  the  King's  money,  Ben- 
jamin." 

He  entered  a  cigar  shop  just  at  the  corner  of 
Trafalgar  Square,  leaving  Mr.  Crabbe  to  wait  for 
him  upon  the  pavement  outside.  The  fellow  had 
amused  him  in  prison,  where  they  sang  in  the  choir 
together,  but  here  in  Whitehall  he  was  not  amused 
at  all.  Captivity,  which  welcomed  any  friendship, 
even  the  meanest  a  month  ago,  caused  liberty  to 
turn  J rom  it  to-day  as  from  an  aggravation  of  the 
penalty.  John  Canning  said  that  he  must  be  alone. 

He  offered  his  companion  a  cigar  and  lingered 
yet  a  little  while  to  find  some  decent  excuse  for  get- 
ting rid  of  him.  To  be  sure,  the  lad  was  sympa- 
thetic enough  and  very  willing  to  be  of  service.  A 
vague  idea  of  an  honorable  future  floated  in  his 
mind.  And  why  should  it  not  be  shared  with  this 
handsome,  kindly  gentleman  who  had  been  his  mas- 
ter even  in  prison  ? 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Benjamin  enthusiastic- 
ally, "let's  go  down  to  Newmarket  together  and  see 
old  Jeff  Corder.  He  ain't  particular,  Jeff  ain't,  and 
wouldn't  ask  no  questions,  no,  not  if  you'd  been 
'ung.  I  shall  go  down  to  him,  and  you'd  better 
come  with  me.  'Osses  ain't  got  no  memory,  thank 

10 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

God,  and  they  won't  think  no  worse  of  me  for  run- 
ning across  a  plowed  field  with  five  pound  two  in 
my  pocket,  and  'arf  Brighton  at  my  heels.  Come 
along  with  me,  Mr.  Canning,  and  see  what  old  Jeff 
can  do  for  us.  We're  on  the  police  list  for  many  a 
month,  and  I  don't  suppose  people'll  be  anxious  to 
see  us  at  mothers'  meetings.  Why  don't  you  think 
of  it  and  come  down  to  Newmarket  ?" 

John  Canning  said  that  he  would,  though,  in 
truth,  he  never  wished  to  see  Benjamin  Crabbe 
again.  He  had  been  grateful  to  the  fellow  for  many 
a  laugh  in  prison,  but  was  not  grateful  to  him  for 
such  frank  expressions  here  upon  the  pavement  of 
Trafalgar  Square.  Happily,  the  sudden  advent  of 
the  girl  Nance,  dressed  in  the  brightest  of  blue  and 
as  radiant  in  her  reception  of  "Benny,"  relieved  him 
of  an  embarrassing  ordeal ;  and  with  a  brief  word  to 
them  both  he  terminated  the  interview. 

"If  ever  you  are  in  trouble  write  to  me,"  he  said. 
"A  letter  addressed  care  of  my  lawyer,  Abraham 
Wesson,  in  Old  Broad  Street,  will  find  me  always. 
Don't  hesitate  to  write,  Ben.  And  let  me  wish  you 
and  this  young  lady  the  best  of  luck." 

The  girl  said,  "Thank  you  kindly,  sir;"  Benjamin 
merely  exclaimed,  "I'll  not  forget,  Mr.  Canning," 
and  walked  away  immediately  with  his  companion 
in  the  direction  of  Pall  Mall. 

Interest,  claiming  them,  severed  the  bonds  of  a 
II 


mutual  obligation  in  an  instant  and  sent  them  upon 
their  divergent  ways  without  a  thought  of  the 
darker  days.  As  for  John  Canning,  the  merry  faces 
reproached  him;  the  vulgar  expressions  disgusted 
him.  For  more  than  four  years,  passing  from 
prison  to  prison,  he  had  craved  for  some  human 
voice  to  comfort  him,  some  kindly  hand  to  lift  him 
up.  To-day,  the  day  of  his  release,  he  shunned  all 
voices  and  would  be  alone. 

London,  the  city  of  his  fortunes,  affrighted  him. 
What  a  thunder  of  sounds!  What  a  kaleidoscope  of 
men  and  things!  And  how  the  city  had  changed 
even  during  the  years  of  his  imprisonment.  The 
motor  buses  seemed  very  Juggernauts  crashing  a 
way  through  a  human  jungle.  The  press  of  the 
people  and  the  traffic  had  increased  beyond  all 
knowledge  since  last  he  made  a  part  of  it.  And 
the  fashions  in  the  shops,  the  dress,  the  taxicabs, 
the  very  names  of  newspapers  of  whose  existence  he 
had  never  heard,  all  these  helped  the  illusion  that  he 
had  been  thrust  suddenly  into  a  new  city  and  stood 
there  a  stranger  and  alone. 

Solitude  is  the  fit  harbor  for  shame,  and  John 
Canning  did  not  regret  the  circumstance.  He  had 
planned  his  future  while  he  was  in  prison;  but, 
oddly  enough,  had  made  no  allowance  for  this  sense 
of  isolation.  People  would  judge  hin?  generously, 
he  had  thought.  A  man  who  floats  a  public  com- 

12 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

pany  and  gets  into  difficulties  with  the  law  over  it 
is  not  in  the  category  of  the  common  criminal.  Men 
remember  that  he  was  shrewd  and  far-seeing.  Per- 
haps their  human  dislike  of  supreme  success  makes 
them  grateful  to  such  a  man  for  his  fall.  John 
Canning  thought  that  he  would  find  many  a  friend 
ready  to  receive  him  with  open  arms  upon  the  day 
of  his  release.  But  when  he  left  New  Scotland 
Yard,  from  which  all  prisoners  are  finally  dis- 
charged, not  a  soul  was  there  to  meet  him,  no 
message  awaited  him,  not  a  single  hand  had  been 
outstretched. 

The  first  instants  of  freedom,  supreme  in  their 
emotions,  permitted  him  to  ignore  both  the  omis- 
sion and  its  significance.  He  had  listened  to  the 
chatter  of  an  uneducated  companion  and  forgotten 
for  the  instant  that  other  voices  should  have  ad- 
dressed him.  Now  that  he  was  alone  and  the  traffic 
roared  about  him,  the  truth  smote  him  a  sudden 
blow  before  which  he  reeled.  Good  God!  he  said, 
that  all  should  have  deserted  him ;  the  friends  of  his 
youth  and  of  his  manhood,  those  whose  fortunes  he 
had  made,  whose  aims  he  had  helped,  whose  homes 
he  had  founded.  His  father  was  a  very  old  man 
and  might  know  nothing  of  this  day,  but  Sybil, 
whose  heroism  during  his  trial  had  been  the  wonder 
of  the  town,  whose  devotion  he  would  have  wagered 
his  very  life  upon,  that  she  should  have  sent  no 

13 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

message  seemed  beyond  all  belief.  And  yet  he 
could  not  doubt  it;  the  streets  mocked  him  as  he 
walked.  For  the  first  time  since  they  accused  him 
he  knew  the  meaning  of  shame. 

He  was  ashamed  to  be  abroad,  he  who  had  longed 
for  liberty  as  a  child  for  the  woods.  The  crime 
that  he  had  committed  now  stood  out,  not  as  a  sin 
against  the  law,  but  against  men.  That  pride  in  his 
own  success,  which  had  supported  him  during  his 
trial  and  sentence  and  afterward  in  prison,  deserted 
him  in  an  instant  when  he  knew  the  truth.  The 
world  would  not  receive  him.  He  was  despised  and 
rejected  of  men.  It  must  be  so,  no  subterfuge 
could  put  the  thought  away. 

He,  John  Canning,  walked  on  swiftly,  no  longer 
remembering  his  freedom.  His  steps  were  those  of 
a  fugitive.  He  would  have  shrunk  from  the  touch 
of  a  human  hand  as  from  a  blow. 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


CHAPTER  II 

ABRAHAM    WESSON    RECEIVES    HIS    CLIENT 

ABRAHAM  WESSON,  the  lawyer,  occupied  a  suite 
of  rooms  upon  the  first  floor  of  one  of  the  largest 
houses  in  Old  Broad  Street.  He  surveyed  humanity 
from  a  seat  in  the  window,  whence  he  could  espy 
the  great  human  stream  below  and  look  almost  into 
the  faces  of  those  upon  the  roofs  of  the  motor 
omnibuses. 

Abraham  Wesson  had  lived  for  sixty-two  years, 
and  had  spent  a  good  forty  of  them  lamenting  the 
Corn  Laws  and  the  English  gold  which  had  gone 
to  their  repeal.  This  was  a  favorite  topic  when  he 
was  not  discussing  his  wife's  genius  for  the  theatre. 
Sarah  Siddons  was  no  such  tragedienne  he  would 
tell  you.  And  her  son  took  after  her,  and  could  be 
Lord  Chancellor  if  he  would. 

He  was  a  good-hearted  man  and  did  not  lack 
sympathy.  The  "fees"  which  went  to  and  fro  on 
the  pavement  below  interested  him  chiefly  because 
of  their  stupendous  ignorance.  Why  were  they  not 
tilling  the  soil  to  grow  the  wheat  which  America 
sent  to  us?  In  a  professionally  suicidal  aspect  he 

15 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

discouraged  litigation  and  would  have  none  of  it. 
The  City  liked  Abraham  Wesson  because  of  this, 
and  told  you  that  he  was  an  honest  man. 

Forty  years  ago  this  ferret-faced  little  lawyer 
with  the  Dundreary  whiskers  had  been  a  pupil  on 
the  farm  of  old  John  Canning,  who  tilled  the  fertile 
soil  of  Suffolk  in  the  parish  of  Honiton.  The 
farmer  had  a  portrait  of  Sir  Robert  in  his  parlor, 
and  was  wont  to  vent  his  spleen  upon  it  at  inter- 
vals. The  young  man  learned  the  truths  of  an  an- 
cient controversy  from  such  violent  lips  and  carried 
them  to  a  lawyer's  office  in  London.  His  abiding 
joy  was  still  a  holiday  on  the  Suffolk  heaths.  He 
had  loved  young  John  Canning  for  his  father's 
sake  and  suffered  a  cruel  blow  to  his  pride  when 
the  crash  came. 

"He  might  have  been  anything,"  he  would  say 
dramatically ;  "there  was  nothing  beyond  his  reach. 
Gladstone  himself  hadn't  a  better  head  for  figures. 
And  he  throws  it  all  away  on  a  steamship  company 
which  was  bringing  foreign  wheat  to  England. 
Show  me  anything  like  that  and  I'll  believe  you,"  a 
vague  aphorism,  by  the  way,  which  Abraham  Wes- 
son employed  upon  many  occasions. 

The  morning  of  May  21,  in  the  year  1907,  found 
the  old  lawyer  in  a  state  of  very  natural  excitement. 
He  had  visited  young  Canning  twice  while  he  was 
at  Portland,  and  would  have  gone  to  New  Scot- 

16 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

land  Yard  to  meet  him  but  for  a  sudden  call  to  a 
consultation  which  was  not  to  be  ignored.  Per- 
haps he  wished  to  spare  his  client  some  embarrass- 
ment, certainly  he  gave  directions  to  that  end  when 
he  returned  to  his  office  at  half-past  eleven  and 
summoned  his  head  clerk,  Muller,  to  his  private 
room. 

"I  shall  want  all  the  papers  in  the  Michael  Can- 
ning matter,"  he  said;  "Mr.  John  will  be  here  al- 
most immediately  and  will  wish  to  know  every- 
thing. Please  keep  the  clerks  out  of  the  way  as 
much  as  possible.  They  will  know  how  to  behave. 
He  is  a  very  sensitive  man,  we  must  not  forget,  and 
one  of  our  best  clients." 

The  clerk  agreed  and  declared  that  he  would  do 
his  best.  When  John  Canning  arrived  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  he  discovered  none  but  a  chubby- 
faced  office  boy  to  meet  him,  and  was  ushered  at 
once  into  the  old  lawyer's  private  room.  Very 
methodically  Abraham  Wesson  pulled  a  chair  to  the 
table  and  dusted  it  His  voice  was  a  little  husky. 
He  shook  hands  with  his  client  as  with  any  pro- 
fessional acquaintance  who  had  dropped  in  to  con- 
sult him. 

"Up  to  time,'1  he  said,  with  the  merest  attempt 
at  merriment.  "I  should  have  been  there,  but  I 
had  to  consult  Kramer.  Wonderful  man  Kramer! 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

The  judges  are  afraid   of   him.      Won't   you  sit 
down?    We  shall  be  quite  alone  here." 

John  Canning  lifted  his  eyes  at  this,  but  imme- 
diately lowered  them.  Why  should  he  be  glad  that 
he  was  alone  with  his  father's  oldest  friend?  Was 
not  this  the  truth  again?  Men  were  ashamed  to  be 
seen  with  him. 

"Of  course  I  came  to  you  first,"  he  said. 

"Of  course  you  did.  Where  else  should  you  go? 
I'd  have  asked  you  down  home  to-night,  but  my 
daughter-in-law  is  there.  Inquisitive  woman  as  ever 
lived,  but  you'll  be  better  in  some  private  hotel  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  there's  much  to  settle  in  London." 

John  Canning  did  not  answer.  He  leaned  upon 
the  table  and  faced  the  lawyer  with  that  hard  glance 
he  had  last  employed  at  the  Board  meeting  which 
declared  his  failure  and  his  ruin. 

"When  did  my  uncle  Michael  die?" 

"Two  days  before  Christmas.  I  told  you  so  in 
my  letter  to  the  pri — to — to  Portland.  He  was  a 
big,  strong  man  and  ought  to  have  lived  longer.  I 
remember  him  well  at  Honiton.  He  served  bailiff 
to  Lord  Sommerton  and  went  to  Australia  sooner 
than  marry  the  huntsman's  daughter.  An  obsti- 
nate man — believed  in  Cobden.  Your  father 
wouldn't  sit  at  the  same  table  with  him  at  the  last." 

"I  have  heard  him  say  so.  What  was  his  for- 
tune worth?" 

18 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"We  don't  know  yet.  My  agent  at  Sydney  has 
the  matter  in  hand.  But  you'll  never  want  for 
bread  nor  butter  either.  Put  it  down  at  a  quarter 
of  a  million,  and  it's  not  beyond  the  mark." 

"Shall  I  have  possession  soon  ?" 

"You'll  get  it  as  soon  as  I  do.  If  you  want  any 
money  meanwhile,  my  bank's  at  your  service.  Any- 
thing up  to  a  thousand  is  lying  there  for  you." 

Canning  reflected  upon  it  an  instant,  and  then 
replied — 

"I  should  like  five  hundred  pounds  in  notes  and 
gold — now,  if  I  can  have  them." 

The  lawyer  touched  a  bell  and  summoned  Muller 
to  the  room.  Obedient  to  his  instructions,  the  head 
clerk  remained  somewhat  in  the  background  and 
spoke  in  a  whisper.  When  the  check  had  been  drawn 
and  dispatched  to  the  bank  they  began  to  speak  of 
other  things. 

"You  are  going  down  to  Suffolk — to  your  father, 
I  suppose?" 

"Possibly,  yes.  I  have  no  plans.  Does  my  father 
know  that  Michael  left  me  this  fortune?" 

"I  told  him  so  by  letter.  But  he  is  a  very  old 
man,  and  very  old  men  are  not  much  interested  in 
money.  Perhaps  you'll  be  glad  to  think  that  his 
faculties  are  not  quite  what  they  were.  He  and  I 
have  been  as  brothers,  so  you  mustn't  mind  my 
saying  it,  John." 

19 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  quite  understand  it.  Let  me  ask  you  another 
question,  one  that  did  not  occur  to  me  while  I  was 
in  prison.  It  concerns  myself.  What  do  men  think 
of  me,  Wesson?  What  kind  of  a  reception  am  I 
likely  to  meet  with  at  the  hands  of  my  old  friends?" 

The  lawyer  locked  his  fingers  together  and  leaned 
far  back  in  his  leather  chair.  He  was  pleased  that 
the  question  should  have  been  asked.  Better  the 
truth  than  the  affront.  And  he  knew  that  John 
Canning  must  meet  with  many  an  affront. 

"The  City  thought  you  unlucky.  When  a  young 
man  takes  to  company  promoting,  he  launches  his 
ship  on  a  rocky  shore.  Your  balance  sheets  were 
fraudulent  according  to  the  law,  but  they  were 
smart  according  to  the  practice.  I  heard  you 
blamed  in  many  quarters  and  praised  in  a  few.  The 
world  is  rather  kind  to  cleverness  which  fails.  If 
you  press  me  to  tell  you — and  who  should  tell  you 
if  not  your  lawyer? — then  I  say  that  you  must  not 
expect  too  much  in  the  days  just  before  you.  Prison 
is  the  one  thing  society  neither  forgives  nor  forgets. 
It  will  accept  a  debauchee,  a  drunkard,  a  blas- 
phemer and  a  rogue,  but  it  won't  accept  a  man  who 
has  been  in  prison,  even  if  his  crime  were  no  greater 
than  assaulting  a  railway  porter.  If  you  were  poor, 
I  should  be  very  sorry  for  you  to-day,  but  you  are 
rich,  and  will  find  many  to  fawn  upon  you  for 
money's  sake.  Beware  of  them,  John.  Don't  for- 

20 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

get  that  a  man  may  rise  on  stepping  stones,  as  Ten- 
nyson told  us.  You  may  yet  go  far  if  you  bide 
your  time.  But  you'll  have  to  live  abroad  to  do  it, 
and  live  abroad  you  will  if  you  are  a  sensible  man. 
What's  England  to  you  or  any  man  who  has  fallen 
foul  of  the  laws  of  England?  You'll  never  rise 
here.  And  you  have  brains  which  may  make  you 
a  leader  in  another  country.  That's  as  certain  as 
the  pen  before  me.  You  have  no  future  in  Eng- 
land, but  you  might  have  a  great  future  abroad." 

He  spoke  with  that  smug  self-assurance  which 
characterizes  the  family  solicitor,  but  not  unkindly. 
John  Canning  heard  him  with  ears  agog  and  a 
quickened  pulse.  Must  this,  indeed,  be  the  verdict; 
this  edict  of  banishment;  this  abnegation  of  self; 
this  final  and  immediate  admission  that  there  was 
no  future  for  him  in  his  own  country?  He  had 
never  thought  of  it  in  prison.  Vanity  did  not  cease 
to  tell  him  there  that  the  world  praised  his  clever- 
ness and  would  judge  him  kindly. 

"You  think,  then,"  he  exclaimed  presently,  "that 
decent  people  will  cut  me  and  the  others  tolerate 
me  because  of  my  fortune?  Is  it  that,  Wesson?" 

"It  is  human  nature.  Men  choose  their  acquaint- 
ances nowadays  as  they  choose  their  pictures.  They 
want  something  to  decorate  their  rooms ;  something 
which  is  talked  about.  Your  friends  will  be  those 
who  have  something  to  gain  by  your  friendship.  I 

21 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

say  so,  and  I  have  lived  more  than  sixty  years.  The 
English  are  the  hardest  nation  in  the  world  to  the 
unfortunate.  Expect  nothing  from  those  you  knew 
five  years  ago,  and  you  will  not  be  disappointed." 

He  had  meant  to  tell  John  Canning  this  while  he 
was  in  prison;  but  his  courage  failed  him  there.  A 
shrewd  old  man,  he  foresaw  the  difficulties,  the 
humiliations,  the  affronts  which  would  attend  any 
attempt  upon  his  client's  part  to  re-enter  the  society 
from  which  failure  had  driven  him.  And  he  harped 
upon  the  point,  the  more  because  of  the  other's 
silence. 

"You  are  a  rich  man  and  the  whole  world  is  be- 
fore you.  Are  there  no  better  places  than  Thread- 
needle  Street  ?  Think  what  you  might  do  with  your 
money — a  yacht,  a  chateau  in  France,  a  home  in 
Italy;  shooting,  big-game  hunting  in  Africa,  a  tour 
round  the  world.  And  then  you'll  settle  down  and 
find  some  pretty  girl,  and  build  a  home  of  your  own 
and  have  children.  Is  that  not  better  than  Thread- 
needle  Street  and  the  stockbrokers?  A  thousand 
times,  I  say.  Come  to  my  house  when  my  daugh- 
ter-in-law is  gone,  and  we'll  drink  a  glass  of  port 
over  it.  And  you  shall  hear  my  wife.  A  wonderful 
woman,  John;  there  isn't  such  an  actress  on  the 
English  stage." 

In  another  and  lighter  mood  John  Canning  might 
have  hinted  that  the  Tragic  Muse  was  not  the  one 

22 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

he  would  cultivate  under  such  circumstances;  but 
he  knew  the  old  lawyer's  weakness  and  held  his 
tongue.  The  words  had  touched  him  strangely.  A 
home,  a  wife,  children!  What  had  Sybil  to  say  to 
that  ?  A  hot  flush  of  blood  rushed  to  his  face  at  this 
memory.  He  felt  that  he  must  terminate  the  inter- 
view immediately,  but  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
news  of  Sybil. 

"I  shall  come,  of  course,"  he  said;  "but  that  will 
be  after  I  have  made  my  plans.  You  are  very  right 
about  the  hotel.  I  shall  stop  at  Berners'  in  Bond 
Street  to-night,  and  afterward,  perhaps,  at  the  Sa- 
voy. Address  all  my  letters  to  Berners'  for  the 
moment.  If  I  want  money,  I  shall  come  to  you." 

Wesson  retorted  with  a  commonplace.  He  was 
surprised  at  himself  for  expressing  so  little  of  that 
sympathy  he  felt  for  his  old  friend's  son ;  but  young 
John  Canning  was  not  a  man  who  invited  such 
utterances,  although  he  prompted  them.  And  he 
would  understand  the  difficulty.  With  which  con- 
solation the  old  man  shook  his  client  heartily  by  the 
hand  and  bade  him  God-speed. 

"You  can  go  out  by  the  side  door,  if  you  like," 
he  said  confidentially;  "there'll  be  no  one  on  the 
stairs  and  clerks  have  tongues." 

John  Canning  thanked  him,  but  declined  the 
courtesy.  Walking  with  head  erect  he  passed 
through  the  outer  office,  and  met  unflinchingly  the 

23 


THB  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

gaze  of  half  a  dozen  shabby  young  men,  who  had 
just  been  telling  each  other  that  Canning  "the  con- 
vict" was  with  the  governor. 

These  certainly  would  have  made  a  hero  of  him. 
Perhaps  they  were  astonished  that  his  portrait  was 
not  already  in  Madame  Tussaud's. 


24 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  III 

A   RETROSPECT   AND   AFTERWARD 

THERE  is  music  in  the  voice  of  a  great  city  for 
him  who  has  the  gift  of  her  harmonies.  John  Can- 
ning was  proud  to  account  himself  one  of  these  in 
the  old  days. 

How  he  had  loved  London.  What  an  arena  for 
men's  ambitions.  What  a  mighty  temple  of  effort 
and  achievement.  All  that  pride  might  desire  and 
success  might  win  were  to  be  had  in  London.  This 
he  had  kept  before  him  during  the  years;  this  was 
the  truth  he  carried  to  London  fifteen  years  ago 
when  a  lad  from  Cambridge,  he  had  entered  a  ship- 
broker's  office  and  sworn  to  establish  his  fortunes. 

And  he  had  established  them.  That  restless, 
omniverous  brain  made  him  a  marked  man  from 
the  first.  Old  Stephen  Bond,  the  shipbroker,  was 
not  one  to  admit  a  young  man's  cleverness  except 
upon  compulsion,  but  he  recognized  at  an  early  mo- 
ment the  ability  of  this  youth  whom  he  had  re- 
ceived into  his  office  upon  his  son's  recommenda- 
tion. 

John  Canning,  in  truth,  had  been  a  lucky  fellow 

25 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

from  the  beginning.  It  was  luck  which  sent  Dr. 
Hooper  of  King's  College  at  Cambridge  down  to 
hear  the  Sunday  service  in  Honiton  parish  church, 
and  there  to  remark  the  beauty  of  the  lad's  voice; 
luck  which  admitted  young  John  to  the  college 
choir;  luck  which  permitted  him  afterward  to  win 
a  mathematical  scholarship  in  a  poor  year;  luck 
which  named  young  Henry  Bond  for  his  friend  at 
King's,  and  so  obtained  him  a  place  in  Stephen 
Bond's  office. 

He  was  such  a  good-tempered,  masterful,  charm- 
ing acquaintance.  Every  one  admitted  it.  Those 
who  disliked  him  were  the  few  who  had  suffered  at 
Cambridge  and  in  London  by  his  successes.  He 
had  no  real  enemy,  perhaps.  And  he  certainly  be- 
lieved that  he  had  many  friends. 

The  aftermath  is  the  story  of  the  tragedy.  John 
Canning  succeeded  so  well  in  old  Stephen  Bond's 
office  that  he  set  up  presently  for  himself;  pushed 
ahead  as  a  financier  with  almost  incredible  success; 
took  to  promoting  shipping  companies — was  caught 
in  the  great  panic  of  the  year  1901,  accused  of 
falsifying  a  balance  sheet  and  sentenced  at  the  Old 
Bailey  to  seven  years'  penal  servitude. 

The  trial  had  been  a  nine  days'  wonder,  and  as 
quickly  forgotten.  Many  said  that  this  would  be 
the  end  of  the  new  gospel  of  youth,  so  loudly 
preached  just  then  in  commercial  circles.  John 

26 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Canning  had  not  failed  because  he  was  dishonest, 
but  by  reason  of  his  faith  in  himself.  When  things 
went  ill,  he  had  been  proud  enough  to  say,  "I  can 
put  them  straight."  A  lofty  contempt  for  old-fash- 
ioned restraint  and  prudence  ruined  him.  He  had 
believed  to  the  last  in  the  stability  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  Morocco  ports  company,  and  was  as- 
tounded when  the  cataclysm  overwhelmed  it.  Im- 
possible that  such  -a  thing  could  have  happened  to 
him! 

London  had  spoken  to  him  with  a  dreadful  voice 
upon  that  day  of  his  arrest,  and  the  sounds  often 
rang  in  his  ears  during  the  long  years  of  his  im- 
prisonment. He  had  dined  at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  he 
remembered,  and  taken  Sybil  and  her  brother  to 
the  theatre  afterward.  A  merry  supper  party  kept 
them  up  very  late,  and  it  had  been  after  one  when 
he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  the  Albany — then  still 
a  famous  home  of  bachelors.  Waking  late  upon 
the  following  morning,  his  valet  Gilford  informed 
him  that  two  police  officers  were  in  the  house.  He 
would  never  forget  the  instant  humiliation,  the  sud- 
den realization  of  woe  and  disaster  in  its  ultimate 
shape.  In  truth  he  had  hardly  listened  to  the 
charge,  so  loudly  did  the  word  "ruin"  ring  in  his 
ears. 

And  they  had  sent  him  to  penal  servitude.  Per- 
haps the  truth  was  that  the  mere  incidents  of  im- 

27 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

prisonment  counted  very  little  in  his  case.  Old 
Stephen  Bond  had  done  his  best  for  him;  young 
Henry  had  been  a  staunch  friend — he  had  heard 
constantly  from  Sybil  during  his  trial,  been  cheered 
by  frequent  messages  and  letters.  When  the  end 
came,  her  brother  Henry  said  that  they  feared  for 
her  reason — and  he  added  boyishly,  "Of  course  she 
is  frightfully  cut  up." 

How  many  years  had  passed  since  those  words 
were  uttered.  Where  was  Stephen  Bond?  Was 
he  alive  or  dead?  And  Sybil,  that  stately  gracious 
girl  whom  he  had  worshiped  while  yet  a  mere  lad 
at  Cambridge,  and  made  the  idol  of  his  manhood, 
what  of  her?  He  had  been  a  coward  not  to  put  the 
question  to  old  Abraham  Wesson.  The  agony  he 
had  suffered  in  the  prison  had  been  the  agony  of 
her  silence.  Had  she  cast  him  off  utterly?  Was 
there  no  hope  that  the  years  might  redeem  the  past  ? 
He  had  learned  to  abandon  the  dream.  None  but 
a  fool,  he  said,  would  cling  tenaciously  to  such  a 
folly. 

This  was  the  loudest  voice  of  London  as  she 
spoke  to  him  upon  the  day  of  his  freedom.  He 
must  learn  the  truth  about  Sybil,  and  learn  it  as 
quickly  as  might  be.  There  was  no  plan  in  his 
mind  when  he  left  Abraham  Wesson's  office;  but 
he  had  money  in  his  pocket,  and  in  a  sense  all  the 
world  was  before  him.  What  his  position  would 

28 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

have  been  had  he  emerged  from  prison  a  beggar 
and  friendless,  he  did  not  dare  to  think.  But  God's 
providence  had  spared  him  this,  and  he  reflected 
with  almost  savage  irony  that  he  was  a  richer  man 
by  far  than  many  of  those  who  would  scorn  him. 

This  pleasant  thought  warred  with  others  less 
pleasant  as  he  walked  up  Broad  Street  and  made 
his  way  toward  the  west.  It  was  a  glorious  morn- 
ing of  May,  and  even  the  City  breathed  a  sweet  air. 
These  had  been  the  scenes  of  his  triumph  in  the  old 
days.  He  paused  at  the  corner  of  Threadneedle 
Street  and  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  office 
where  he  had  dealt  in  thousands  as  others  deal  in 
tens.  With  what  a  fever  of  anxiety  had  he  entered 
that  building  upon  the  mornings  of  these  tempestu- 
ous days.  How  many  had  done  him  homage  in 
that  brief  season  of  his  prosperity.  Would  they 
remember  him  to-day,  might  it  not  be  that  his  very 
name  had  been  forgotten? 

He  crossed  the  street  and  sauntered  by  the  door 
of  the  Stock  Exchange.  Many  unfamiliar  faces 
passed  by,  but  one  at  length  which  was  familiar. 
John  Canning  recognized  in  the  man  the  boy  Val 
Percival,  who  had  been  at  Cambridge  with  him.  He 
stopped  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Surely  it  is  Percival !" 

"Good  God — Canning!" 

It  was  not  said  unkindly.  The  manner,  the  tone 
29 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

of  it  marked  both  astonishment  and  sympathy — 
but  also  some  embarrassment.  Nevertheless,  this 
well-dressed,  busy  fellow  glanced  about  him  as 
though  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  such  company.  He 
was  quite  unable  to  talk  rationally.  John  Canning 
himself  flushed  crimson.  He  understood  the  situa- 
tion without  a  word  spoken. 

"I  thought  you  would  not  remember  me.  Things 
are  very  different,  Percival." 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  very  sorry — is  there  anything  I 
can  do,  Canning?" 

"I  suppose  you  have  all  pronounced  sentence  on 
me  long  ago,  but  you  can  tell  me  something.  Is 
old  Stephen  Bond  still  alive?" 

"He  died  three  years  ago." 

"And  his  daughter?  You  knew  her  well,  I  re- 
member." 

Percival  looked  askance  as  he  answered  the  ques- 
tion. 

"She's  living  at  the  old  house  in  Charles  Street. 
Harry  has  gone  to  Africa.  Didn't  you  know  ?" 

"I  know  nothing,"  said  Canning  quietly.  "How 
should  I  after  five  years  in  Portland." 

The  "friend"  shrank  from  the  brutality  of  the 
confession,  and,  afraid  to  say  more,  he  made  some 
excuse  and  went  into  the  House.  But  John  Can- 
ning set  out  immediately  to  walk  to  Charles  Street, 
where  the  whole  truth  should  be  told  to  him. 

30 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  IN  CHARLES  STREET 

OLD  Stephen  Bond  had  spent  forty  years  of  his 
life  at  the  little  house  in  Charles  Street,  Berkeley 
Square ;  and  prosperity  did  not  move  him  to  a  more 
ambitious  home.  True,  he  had  a  great  country  seat 
near  Tring,  and  posed  occasionally  at  the  week-end 
as  a  country  gentleman;  but  the  best  of  his  days 
were  spent  in  Charles  Street,  and  there  he  died. 

John  Canning  knew  every  room  in  this  little 
house,  and  his  dreams  had  repeopled  it  many  a 
night  when  he  lay  in  prison  and  sleep  was  denied  to 
him.  Imagination  made  much  of  it;  but,  in  truth, 
it  was  no  more  than  a  substantial  building  of  red 
brick  with  a  narrow  front  upon  a  narrow  roadway 
and  a  square  hall  opening  up  behind  double  doors. 
These  latter  used  to  be  thrown  wide  open  when 
Sybil,  radiant  in  a  Paris  gown,  swept  down  to  the 
brougham  which  should  carry  her  to  Covent  Gar- 
den or  the  theatres.  John  Canning,  a  prisoner, 
would  recall  such  a  scene  before  others  reminiscent 
of  the  house.  How  majestic  had  been  her  presence ! 
With  what  pride  had  he  accompanied  her! 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

And  now  he  stood  in  Charles  Street  once  again, 
upon  an  afternoon  of  May,  when  the  sun  shone 
gloriously,  and  even  Berkeley  Square  had  its  gift 
of  fresh  green  leaves.  About  him  was  the  typical 
life  of  a  London  season — carriages  rolling  lazily 
toward  the  Park;  well-dressed  women  going  to  and 
from  the  open  houses;  motors  humming  by;  busy 
people  passing  at  a  brisk  walk  as  though  the  routine 
of  gaiety  dictated  hasty  steps.  He  had  visited 
Charles  Street  a  hundred  times  under  such  circum- 
stances; but  never  with  such  a  sense  of  doubt  and 
Hesitation.  How  if  Sybil  had  heard  that  this  was 
the  day  of  his  freedom  and  were  awaiting  him? 
True,  no  letter  had  come  to  the  prison ;  but  prudence 
would  forbid  such  a  message.  John  Canning  stood 
at  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Square,  afraid  to  stir  a 
step.  He  had  trusted  Sybil  before  them  all,  and  his 
faith  endured. 

A  cheeky  butcher-boy,  romping  with  another  upon 
the  pavement,  asked  him  what  time  it  was,  and  he 
pulled  out  the  great  gold  watch  Stephen  Bond  gave 
him  many  years  ago,  and  answered,  "Four  o'clock." 
He  had  forgotten  no  detail  of  Sybil's  daily  life,  and 
this  he  remembered  would  be  the  hour  at  which  she 
set  off  for  her  daily  drive.  The  thought  took  him 
quickly  from  the  square;  and  he  approached  the 
house  of  his  desires  and  gazed  wistfully  at  its  doors. 
These  were  both  closed  and  the  sun-blinds  drawn 

32 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

over  the  windows — but  the  house  was  quite  un- 
changed. The  very  flower  boxes  were  full  of  the 
pink  tulips  she  loved. 

A  little  house  of  red  brick,  closed  and  silent  and 
sleeping  in  the  sunshine!  How  often  in  the  old 
days  had  he  not  hastened  there,  upon  just  such  an 
afternoon  as  this,  or  driven  up  in  his  phaeton  to 
take  Sybil  to  the  Park  and  afterward  to  dinner  at 
Ranelagh.  Their  engagement  had  never  been  quite 
to  old  Bond's  satisfaction,  for  the  shipbroker  had 
conservative  notions  and  disbelieved  in  all  who  did 
not  hasten  slowly;  but  Harry,  his  son,  had  been 
staunch  to  Canning  since  their  Cambridge  days,  and 
would  hear  of  no  other  husband  for  his  sister.  The 
two  were  much  together  at  that  time,  and  their 
plans  rarely  excluded  Sybil,  who  loved  all  games, 
and  had  even  stooped,  in  a  frivolous  mood,  to  play 
cricket  with  them. 

She  was  very  young  then,  three  years  Canning's 
junior;  but  she  remained  the  girl  in  his  imagination, 
and  he  could  not  believe  that  the  years  had  counted 
in  her  case.  No  man  recalls  the  face  of  a  woman  he 
has  loved  in  any  other  shape  than  that  which  youth 
has  moulded  for  him;  and  John  Canning  made  no 
exception.  He  depicted  Sybil  as  the  school-girl, 
with  mischievous  hair  about  her  pretty  face,  and 
blue  eyes  full  of  laughter.  A  thought  of  the  after- 
math of  womanhood  remained  distasteful  to  him. 

33 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

She  would  drive  to  the  Park  presently,  he  said, 
and  would  discover  him  as  he  stood  and  waited  for 
her.  A  dread  of  missing  his  opportunity  kept  him 
very  close  to  the  house — so  close  that  his  presence 
was  remarked  by  a  lazy  butler  standing  at  a  neigh- 
boring door.  This  man  laughed  a  little  impudently, 
and  would  have  spoken  had  he  been  encouraged. 
But  Canning  passed  him  thrice  with  a  stony  stare, 
and  he  went  in  presently  and  stood  at  the  window  of 
the  house,  the  better  to  spy  upon  this  stranger. 

There  was  shame  in  the  consciousness  of  this,  and 
it  brought  hot  blood  to  Canning's  cheeks.  Why  did 
he  hesitate  to  knock  at  Sybil's  door?  What  cow- 
ardice kept  the  truth  back  from  him?  He  had  but 
to  say,  "I  am  John  Canning,  and  I  have  come  to 
you  according  to  the  promise."  If  she  did  not  wish 
him  to  remain,  a  word  would  intimate  as  much,  and 
he  would  go.  Oh,  be  sure  something  of  the  old 
pride  remained  and  was  this  man's  finest  inherit- 
ance. Broken  but  not  bent,  he  would  yet  face  the 
world  triumphantly.  If  he  temporized  for  the  mo- 
ment, five  years  of  prison  answered  for  his  weak- 
ness. He  would  have  gone  to  any  other ;  but  not  to 
Sybil,  who  held  the  supreme  gift  to  bestow  or  with- 
hold it  as  her  heart  dictated. 

The  thought  and  the  espionage  had  carried  him  a 
little  way  from  the  house,  and  when  he  turned  again 
a  motor-car  stood  at  the  door — a  covered  carriage, 

34 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

with  a  driver  and  footman  in  livery.  This  had 
hardly  drawn  up  when  the  doors  of  the  house  were 
thrown  wide  open  and  Sybil  herself  appeared,  and 
was  at  once  driven  away  toward  Berkeley  Square. 
To  John  Canning  the  accident  of  her  route  seemed 
almost  an  omen.  She  had  not  even  glanced  in  his 
direction.  He  was  quite  sure  that  she  had  not  seen 
him.  He  said  it  was  the  old  Sybil,  however,  and 
that  time  had  dealt  generously  with  her. 

The  same  grace  of  carriage,  the  same  proud  dig- 
nity which  had  characterized  the  earlier  years  were 
to  be  observed  in  the  woman's  swift  movements  and 
her  attitude  toward  the  servants.  Her  dress  was 
quiet,  and  in  that  excellent  taste  she  had  always  dis- 
played. A  brief  scrutiny  might  have  declared  her 
to  be  without  cares,  one  who  went  to  her  daily 
pleasures  with  no  thought  either  of  yesterday  or  to- 
morrow. John  Canning,  however,  refused  to  be- 
lieve it.  A  pathetic  hope  still  moved  him,  as  no 
emotion  he  could  remember  even  in  the  terrible 
days.  She  must  know.  She  could  not  have  for- 
gotten ! 

He  left  the  street  at  last,  wondering  that  it  was 
so  difficult  to  go;  but  he  was  back  again  at  half- 
past  six,  and  at  a  quarter  to  seven  precisely  Sybil 
returned  to  her  house.  This  time,  determining  not 
to  leave  the  issue  in  doubt,  he  approached  the  car- 
riage boldly  and  lifted  his  hat  as  she  stepped  out. 

35 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Her  response  was  a  grave  inclination  of  the  head, 
and  a  swift  passage  to  her  own  door.  The  man 
who  followed  her,  a  tall,  handsome  young  fellow, 
stared  at  Canning  a  little  curiously,  and  then,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  asked  somewhat  awk- 
wardly— 

"What  do  you  want;  what  is  it?" 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  Miss  Bond." 

"Miss — Miss — but  that  lady  is  my  wife.  Why 
do  you  wish  to  speak  to  her?" 

John  Canning  could  not  answer  a  single  word. 
He  turned  swiftly  on  his  heel  and  left  the  street. 


HER    RESPONSE    WAS    A    GRAVE   INCLINATION    OF   THK 
HEAD    AND   A   SWIFT    PASSAGE    TO    HER    OWN    DOOR 


Page 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  V 

ALL  SORTS  AND    CONDITIONS  OF   MEN* 

CANNING  had  been  three  weeks  in  London  when 
the  droll  idea  entered  his  head  that  he  would  call 
upon  some  of  his  old  friends. 

Hitherto  the  days  had  been  those  of  seclusion. 
He  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms  at  Berners'  Hotel  in 
Bond  Street,  and  rarely  quitted  them  until  after 
nightfall.  Thus,  for  the  time  being,  he  had  found 
a  stronghold  against  the  world;  but  the  isolation 
palled  upon  him  eventually,  and  he  determined  to 
end  it. 

Let  it  be  said  that  he  was  already,  through  Abra- 
ham Wesson's  instrumentality,  master  of  the  large 
fortune  which  his  uncle,  Michael  Canning,  had  left 
him  during  the  last  year  of  his  imprisonment  Such 
knowledge  was  his  stout  ally  during  those  intol- 
erable days.  He  came  to  regard  himself  as  one 
who  stood  alone  against  the  world ;  and  he  reflected 
grimly  that  many  would  yet  do  him  lip  service  if 
the  truth  were  known.  This,  however,  he  de- 
termined to  conceal.  There  was  an  added  joy  in  the 
pretence  of  poverty;  a  cynical  delight  in  those  pro- 

37 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

fessions  of  need  with  which  he  determined  to  assail 
his  friends. 

And  first,  a  visit  to  that  good-tempered  old  gen- 
tleman, the  Vicar  of  St  Colomb's  in  Piccadilly. 
Canning  had  known  him  very  well  in  the  golden 
days,  and  subscribed  hundreds  to  his  charities.  The 
vicar's  comfortable  sermons  were  justly  esteemed  by 
his  large  congregations.  Society  said  that  he  was 
an  excellent  diner-out,  but  not  so  gallant  as  a  diner- 
in.  He  preached  at  Westminster  Abbey  twice  a 
year,  and  invariably  upon  some  aspect  of  our  com- 
mon charity.  To  him,  then,  went  John  Canning 
during  the  third  week  of  his  freedom. 

He  saw  the  vicar  in  the  little  study  which  over- 
looks the  Green  Park.  Prone  to  stoutness,  some- 
what uncertain  upon  his  legs,  but  marvelously 
benevolent  in  countenance,  the  Reverend  John  Wall- 
shot  received  his  old  friend  both  stealthily  and  with 
caution.  When  he  shut  his  study  door  it  was  with 
the  air  of  one  who  would  not  have  the  servants 
overhear  a  word  of  the  conversation.  He  motioned 
Canning  to  a  seat  as  others  bid  a  prisoner  take  a 
chair  in  the  dock.  His  words  were  low-toned  and 
full  of  awe— he  was  obviously  afraid  that  this  man 
was  going  to  ask  for  something. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "I  have  thought  of 
you  very  often.  And  now  I  see  you.  Well,  well, 
life  is  full  of  contrasts,  and  no  one  can  be  more 

38 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

sensible  of  them  than  the  vicar  of  a  populous  parish. 
Do  you  remain  in  England,  may  I  ask?  Is  it  your 
intention  to  stay  with  us  ?" 

Canning  answered  in  plain  words. 

"That  depends  upon  my  friends — I  wish  to  see 
what  they  are  going  to  do  for  me." 

"My  dear  sir,  the  world  is  not  very  kind  to  those 
who  have  met  with  such — er — um — misfortunes  as 
you — that  is — which  we  mutually  understand.  I 
should  have  thought  you  would  have  done  wiser  to 
go  abroad." 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  help  me  to  get  there, 
vicar?" 

"Would  that  I  could.  The  claims  which  this 
parish  makes  upon  me  are  unending.  And  the 
Ecclesiastical  Commissioners  are  most  unsympa- 
thetic. Can  you  believe  it,  I  am  at  this  moment 
positively  compelled  to  do  the  work  of  this  great 
district  with  three  curates.  I  ask  you,  is  that  rea- 
sonable— is  it  possible?  We  have  a  bishop  who  is 
never  at  rest.  I  can  see  that  he  wishes  the  clergy  to 
imitate  him." 

"Then  you  can  do  nothing  for  me?" 

The  vicar  flushed,  but  did  not  relent. 

"There  is,"  he  said,  turning  away  his  head  as  he 
spoke,  "a  society,  I  believe,  which  gives  aid  to  dis- 
charged— er — to  unfortunate  people  in  your  posi- 
tion. I  could  write  to  them  on  your  behalf." 

39 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Is  it  a  good  society,  vicar?" 

"One  of  the  best,  I  am  told." 

"Then  tell  them  I  will  contribute  five  hundred 
pounds  to  their  funds.  I  was  going  to  give  the 
money  to  you — but  I  see  that  it  will  be  more  use  to 
them.  Please  send  the  money  in  my  name.  I  am 
sure  you  will  approve  of  such  a  form  of  charity — 
especially  as  you  are  unable  to  do  anything  for  dis- 
charged prisoners  yourself." 

The  vicar  of  St.  Colomb's  opened  his  eyes  wider 
than  he  had  opened  them  for  many  a  day.  What 
he  really  thought  of  himself  no  man  will  «ver 
know ;  but  he  was  clever  enough  to  realize  his  mis- 
take and  to  cover  it  adroitly. 

"Most  generous  of  you — most  generous,"  he  re- 
joined, "so  like  the  John  Canning  who  used  to  be 
my  right  hand.  I  will  send  the  money,  of  course. 
There  can  be  no  finer  type  of  charity  than  that 
which  ministers  to  the  fallen.  You  feel  for  them 
— it  is  very  natural — as  we,  your  friends,  have  felt 
for  you." 

Canning  smiled,  but  would  not  take  up  the  chal- 
lenge. 

"There  is  just  one  question  I  should  like  to  ask 
before  I  go,"  he  said ;  "you  married  Sybil  Bond,  I 
believe.  How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"To  the  best  of  my  memory  nearly  three  years. 


40 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  married  Captain  Endsleigh  of  the  Blues — but, 
of  course,  you  knew — and — ah,  I  remember." 

"With  a  better  memory  than  a  woman's.  I  am 
obliged  to  you.  If  I  remain  in  England,  you  may 
hear  of  me  again.  But  I  am  coming  to  your  opin- 
ion. This  country  is  no  place  for  a  man  who  has 
committed  a  crime  and  been  punished  for  it.  He 
owes  it  to  society  to  die.  He  owes  it  to  his  friends 
never  to  remind  them  that  he  was — and  is.  You 
agree  with  me,  vicar — your  words  say  that  you  do." 

The  old  clergyman  shook  his  head.  What  a  mis- 
take he  had  made.  And  what  a  fine  thing  it  would 
have  been  to  have  posed  before  his  congregation  as 
the  staunch  friend  of  one  who  could  write  a  check 
for  five  hundred  pounds  for  any  object  which 
pleased  him! 

"We  have  too  little  charity!"  he  exclaimed,  ut- 
tering his  favorite  platitude.  "The  world  is  losing 
its  old  faiths,  and  chivalry  is  going  with  them.  But 
I  doubt  not  that  a  rich  man  would  find  friends  what- 
ever his  past.  We  do  not  ask  to-day  what  a  man 
has  done,  but  what  he  is  going  to  do.  That  is  the 
plain  truth,  Mr.  Canning,  however  much  I,  a  clergy- 
man, may  regret  it." 

He  said  much  more  in  a  similar  vein,  threw  out 
many  a  hint  which  might  undo  this  colossal  error 
of  sending  five  hundred  pounds  to  a  fund  which 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

neither  he  nor  his  church  wardens  administered; 
but  Canning  was  already  tired  of  him,  and  with  a 
dry  word  of  thanks  he  continued  his  mission,  and 
was  shortly  closeted  with  his  old  friend,  Sir  Hor- 
ace Gipps,  the  banker.  This  old  man  was  honest  to 
the  core.  He  shook  hands  with  his  visitor,  but 
obviously  did  not  wish  him  to  stay. 

"Well,  Canning,"  he  said,  "glad  to  see  you  about 
again.  How  long  have  you  been  in  London?" 

"Three  weeks — I  was  released  from  Portland 
just  three  weeks  ago." 

"And  what  business  had  any  one  with  your  brains 
to  be  in  Portland  at  all?  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  the  man  who  climbs  quickly  in  the  City  has 
a  long  way  to  fall  when  the  ladder's  rotten.  You 
should  have  listened  to  the  old  men.  I  told  you  so 
at  the  time.  I  tell  you  so  again  to-day." 

"Wise  advice,  Sir  Horace — if  I  were  returning 
*to  the  City.  But  I  am  not.  You  have  no  place  here 
for  unlucky  men.  It  is  true  that  half  of  you  are 
much  greater  rogues  than  I  ever  was — but  the  oth- 
ers are  not  found  out.  I  shall  go  to  the  East.  It 
has  no  memory." 

"Don't  believe  it.  You  will  meet  some  curious 
Englishman  every  mile  and  he'll  want  to  know  all 
about  you  before  he  pitches  his  tent  in  your  camp. 
The  East's  no  place  for  your  brains.  Why  not  try 
America?  They'd  call  you  smart  out  there." 

42 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Will  you  head  a  subscription  to  get  me  out?" 

"I'll  give  you  just  five  pounds.  That's  what  I 
give  to  every  man  who  wants  to  make  a  new  start. 
Five  pounds — I  came  to  London  with  that  much 
five-and- forty  years  ago.  Why  should  any  man 
want  more?" 

Canning  laughed. 

"I  came  here,"  he  said,  "not  to  beg,  but  to  open 
an  account  with  your  bank  and  leave  some  ten  thou- 
sand with  you.  But  I'll  take  your  five  pounds  all 
the  same  and  frame  it.  You're  the  first  who  offered 
me  a  shilling." 

Sir  Horace  looked  a  little  crestfallen.  The  power 
of  money  is  as  sure  with  the  rich  as  the  poor.  What 
a  fool  he  had  been  not  to  ask  questions  first. 

"Well,"  he  stammered,  "money  will  take  you  any- 
where. Put  this  story  round  and  you  may  fill  the 
banqueting  hall  at  the  Cecil.  I  should  have  guessed 
you  were  not  the  man  to  come  begging." 

"A  thing  few  guess.  Oblige  me  by  treating  the 
whole  affair  as  a  professional  confidence.  I  am 
going  about  trying  to  find  a  friend.  Perhaps  I 
shall  yet  succeed." 

Sir  Horace  frankly  confessed  his  doubts. 

"Selfishness  is  the  loudest  note  in  the  music  of 
our  time,"  he  said;  "we  preach  it  all  day  and  every 
day.  Get  on,  push  others  aside,  make  a  pile  to 
astonish  the  universe,  give  entertainments  which 

43 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

will  be  your  glory,  subscribe  to  charities  which  will 
emblazon  your  name  in  gold — there  you  have  it — 
that  is  the  teaching  of  the  twentieth  century.  But 
it  isn't  making  men,  Canning,  and  it's  working  a 
mischief  even  among  the  old  ones.  Take  my  ad- 
vice and  keep  out  of  it  all.  Build  up  a  man's  fu- 
ture. You  could  do  it  with  your  money,  and  your 
past  will  help  you." 

Canning  said  that  he  would  think  of  it.  They 
talked  a  little  while  of  the  business,  of  the  account, 
and  of  things  in  the  City,  and  when  they  parted  the 
younger  man  remembered  that  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment to  lunch  at  one  o'clock  with  a  good  fellow 
named  Ernest  Hobby,  with  whom  he  used  to  play 
golf  at  Richmond.  Hobby  was  an  architect,  who 
had  a  little  house  at  Wimbledon,  and  lived  an  un- 
eventful life  there.  Canning  could  not  understand 
why  he  had  written  to  him — but  he  thought  it 
might  possibly  be  that  he  had  some  news  of  Michael 
Canning's  money. 

"He  will  want  to  borrow  fifty  pounds,"  he  said, 
as  he  retraced  his  steps  from  Lombard  Street  to  the 
Strand ;  "well,  I  had  many  a  good  game  with  him, 
and  after  all  he  is  not  ashamed  to  come  and  lunch 
with  me.  I'll  lend  him  the  money." 

He  was  to  meet  his  friend  at  the  Gaiety  Restau- 
rant, and  here  he  found  him  at  a  quarter-past  one. 
Hobby  had  grown  a  little  older,  but  was  otherwise 

44 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

unchanged — an  open-minded,  simple-hearted  Eng- 
lishman of  forty,  who  would  just  as  soon  have 
thought  of  jumping  off  London  Bridge  as  of  saying 
the  thing  which  was  not.  Possibly  a  more  truthful 
person  never  existed.  He  had  no  tact  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense  of  the  term.  If  he  thought  a  thing,  he 
said  it,  and  never  troubled  himself  about  the  apol- 
ogy. On  this  occasion  his  dress  was  almost  shabby. 
He  wore  a  suit  of  indifferent  tweeds,  and  a  bowler 
hat  which  had  seen  better  days. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  come,"  he  said  to 
Canning.  "I  thought  it  would  be  too  much  to  ex- 
pect so  soon." 

"Why  so  soon,  Hobby?" 

"Oh,  because  all  your  friends  will  have  been 
dining  and  lunching  you  every  day.  I  didn't  expect 
to  get  a  chance  just  yet." 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  don't  understand.  I  have 
been  in  prison.  Men  don't  dine  and  lunch  pris- 
oners. They  cross  the  road  to  avoid  them.  That's 
my  experience,  I  assure  you." 

Hobby  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that;  but  not  the  people 
who  were  your  friends." 

"Every  one  of  them.  You  are  the  first  man  who 
has  asked  me  to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  him.  The 
rest  advise  me  to  go  abroad — but  we  won't  talk 
about  it.  We'll  eat  instead.  Good  food  is  much  to 

45 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

a  man  who  has  been  in  penal  servitude — very  much, 
Hobby,  I  can  assure  you." 

Hobby  uttered  a  blunt  word  of  protest.  He  dis- 
liked to  hear  his  friend  talk  in  this  way.  He  had 
such  simple  notions  of  right  'and  wrong  himself 
that  a  shabby  idea  hardly  entered  his  little  world  of 
thought. 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  it,"  he  said.  "Why, 
half  the  City  does  what  you  did,  and  they  know  it. 
You're  lunching  with  me,  Canning — don't  forget 
that  I  asked  you,  and  it's  my  turn." 

Canning  surrendered  the  bill  of  fare  to  him  and 
glanced  round  the  restaurant.  He  was  obviously  a 
stranger  to  the  majority  there,  but  one  group  in  the 
corner  recognized  him  and  were  sharing  the  knowl- 
edge with  the  waiter.  This  worthy  carried  the  news 
to  other  tables,  so  that  half  the  people  in  the  place 
knew  that  Canning,  the  convict,  was  lunching  in  the 
restaurant ;  and  many  a  jest  they  made  of  it.  Hap- 
pily, the  good  Hobby  knew  nothing  of  this.  He  was 
trying  to  tell  Canning  how  very  sorry  he  was  when 
he  heard  of  Sybil  Bond's  marriage. 

"It  cut  me  up  dreadfully,"  he  said ;  "we  say  that 
we  don't  believe  in  women  while  we  believe  in  them 
all  the  time.  She  was  such  a  brick  during  your 
trial — I  was  in  court  every  day,  and  I  know  what 
happened.  And  then  to  go  and  marry  a  fellow  who 
had  been  carrying  on  with  half  the  women  in  Lon- 

46 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

don  before  he  knew  her.  I  was  very  sorry  about  it, 
Canning." 

The  gaucherie  was  lamentable,  but  the  good  fel- 
low meant  well  enough,  and  Canning  had  never 
been  the  one  to  resent  sympathy,  however  clumsily 
expressed.  Still,  he  felt  unable  to  speak  of  Sybil. 
He  had  lived  nights  of  agony,  days  of  shame,  since 
he  discovered  the  truth ;  but  others  must  never  dis- 
cover it  wholly  or  share  a  confidence  of  his  distress. 

"We  won't  talk  of  that,"  he  said  lightly ;  "perhaps 
it  was  too  much  to  expect.  Doesn't  some  writing 
fellow  say  something  about  the  fox,  hyena,  croco- 
dile, and  all  beasts  of  craft  being  distilled  to  make 
one  woman?  The  old  Jesuits  were  right  after  all 
when  they  recommended  celibacy.  They  must  laugh 
in  their  sleeves  at  the  rest  of  us.  Will  you  very 
kindly  not  speak  of  this  again,  Hobby?  You  will 
oblige  me  by  doing  so  ?" 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  the  jest  carried 
its  own  negation.  As  for  Hobby,  he  felt  very  fool- 
ish in  having  mentioned  such  a  subject  at  all,  and 
began  to  speak  of  himself,  a  thing  he  rarely  did. 

"Of  course  I  won't,"  he  said  quickly,  "and  I  quite 
understand  what  you  mean.  There's  something 
else,  however,  I  must  speak  about,  and  it's  a  com- 
mission I  have — what  do  you  think? — to  build  a 
church  in  Devon.  I  shall  like  that,  for  I  can  do 
good  work  over  it.  The  man  I'm  speaking  of  has 

47 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

been  living  on  Bell  Island,  out  in  the  Bristol  Chan- 
nel— but  he's  leaving  the  place  and  setting  up  in  an 
old  Tudor  mansion  not  far  from  Bideford.  He 
wants  to  have  a  church  in  his  own  grounds  and  his 
own  parson — and  I'm  to  draw  the  plans." 

"I  congratulate  you.  You  always  liked  this  kind 
of  thing,  didn't  you?  I  remember  that  churches 
and  Wagner  were  your  staple  industries  when  first 
I  knew  you,  Hobby." 

Hobby  admitted  it  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "good  music  carries  me  into  an- 
other world — though  it's  little  enough  I  hear  of  it." 

"And  bad  music  is  similarly  moving,  though  the 
destination  is  not  the  same.  What  kind  of  a  church 
are  you  to  build  ?" 

"I  am  to  have  a  free  hand.  I  think  I  shall  choose 
'late  perpendicular.'  It's  the  one  style  our  builders 
seem  successful  in  nowadays.  Mr.  Freeman,  who 
used  to  rent  the  island,  has  given  me  a  cottage,  and 
I  am  to  stay  near  Bideford  all  the  summer.  Why 
don't  you  come  down  with  me,  Canning — come  as 
my  guest,  and  stop  three  months?  We  can  golf  at 
Westward  Ho  when  I'm  not  drawing,  and  you  can 
sail  over  to  Bell  Island  and  have  some  fishing.  If 
I  were  a  rich  man,  I  would  buy  that  place;  but  you 
shall  see  it  for  yourself  if  you  come,  as  I  hope  you 
will." 

Canning  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  leaned 

48 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

back  in  his  chair.  He  was  greatly  moved.  Here 
was  a  man  who  offered  him  a  home.  The  words 
could  mean  nothing  less — a  home  and  friendship 
and  rest,  offered  to  the  outcast,  from  whom  others 
turned  as  from  a  leper.  He  was  not  a  weak  man, 
but  the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  and  he  could  not 
utter  a  word. 

"You  see,"  Hobby  went  on,  "the  commission  is  a 
good  one,  and  will  pay  me  very  well.  I  shall  take 
the  wife  and  the  boy  down  and  we'll  have  a  jolly 
time.  I  am  sure  you  would  enjoy  it,  and  if  you 
want  solitude  you  will  get  it  over  at  Bell  Island, 
where  even  the  gulls  suffer  from  the  dumps.  Why 
not  say  yes,  at  once — I  am  writing  to  Mr.  Freeman 
to-day,  and  I  could  say  that  I  wish  to  bring  a  friend 
with  me." 

Canning  pushed  his  plate  away  and  looked  his 
friend  fully  in  the  face. 

"When  do  you  go?"  he  asked. 

"In  about  ten  days'  time." 

"Then  I  will  come — you  are  very  kind  to  me, 
Hobby,  and  I  will  come.  The  date  just  suits  me — 
I  wish  to  see  my  father  in  Suffolk  and  to  say  good- 
by  to  him.  Yes,  it  is  very  kind  of  you." 

He  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  They  finished 
their  meal  still  discussing  the  prospect,  and  were 
busy  upon  it  while  coffee  was  served. 

They  would  go  to  Devonshire  together,  and  fish 

49 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

and  shoot  and  boat  They  would  also  visit  Bell 
Island,  which  was  for  sale.  The  latter  intimation 
affected  Canning  strangely.  He  wrote  to  Abraham 
Wesson  about  it  directly  he  returned  to  his  own 
rooms. 

"Find  out  all  about  the  property  known  as  Bell 
Island  in  the  Bristol  Channel  and  write  to  me  at 
once.  I  wish  also  to  make  a  deed  of  gift  of  a  thou- 
sand pounds  to  my  friend  Ernest  Hobby  of  the 
Avenue,  Wimbledon.  Kindly  see  that  this  is  car- 
ried through  with  as  much  dispatch  as  may  be." 

Old  Abraham  Wesson  shook  his  head  at  this. 

"Throwing  his  money  about  already,"  he  said. 
"And  buying  a  rock  to  begin  with.  Now,  what 
will  he  do  with  that  island  when  he's  got  it?  Ah, 
I  wonder?" 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  SUFFOLK 

WE  make  a  familiar  journey  with  reminiscence 
for  our  traveling"  companion ;  nor  are  there  any 
other  pleasures  of  the  high  road  which  speak  with 
a  tongue  more  eloquent  than  those  of  memory. 

John  Canning  had  made  the  journey  from  Lon- 
don to  Cambridge  many  a  time  when  he  had  been 
an  undergraduate  at  King's — and  now  he  traveled 
the  familiar  way  once  more,  and  for  a  little  while 
was  able  to  forget  how  long  it  had  been  since  he 
was  able  to  say,  "quorum  pars  sum."  For  he  was 
going  to  his  home  in  Suffolk — to  his  father's  house 
as  he  had  gone  many  a  day  in  the  summer  of  his 
youth. 

It  had  been  a  pleasant  journey  then,  when  the 
healthy,  vigorous  lad  went  home  to  satisfy  a  dear 
mother  that  Cambridge  had  not  starved  him,  and 
to  lead  the  old  farmer  to  wonder  if  rowing  or  Greek 
were  the  chief  study  in  our  English  universities. 
Certainly  the  boy  seemed  more  proficient  in  the  one 
than  the  other;  and  as  for  his  singing,  for  which 
King's  had  rewarded  him  with  a  scholarship,  that 

Si 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  old  fellow  could  not  understand  at  all.  No  one 
had  ever  paid  him  to  sing — and  yet  his  rendering  of 
some  of  Hatton's  songs  had  shaken  the  village  to 
its  depths.  But  he  was  proud  of  his  son,  neverthe- 
less, and  a  word  of  praise  from  old  farmer  Canning 
meant  much,  as  all  the  countryside  knew. 

And  now  this  son  was  coming  home  again,  travel- 
ing the  old  road,  after  six  long  years  of  darkness 
and  of  silence.  To  John  Canning  nothing  seemed 
changed  in  all  that  picture.  Cambridge,  as  ever, 
was  but  a  vista  of  ugly  chimneys  when  viewed 
across  the  dirty  plain  about  the  station;  the  Cam, 
when  he  crossed  it  on  the  road  to  Ely,  seemed  alive 
with  the  very  boats  in  which  he  had  rowed  nine- 
teen years  ago — showed  the  same  figures  playing 
the  same  part  in  the  old  water  pageant;  the  same 
colors;  the  scarlets  and  blues  and  black  in  which 
these  eternal  heroes  clothed  themselves.  Only  the 
soul  of  the  man  was  different,  scarred  and  seared  by 
the  years,  bearing  its  fruits  of  bitterness  and  regret. 
Cambridge,  he  reflected  ironically,  would  be  in  no 
mood  to  honor  him  to-day.  He  realized  that  he 
would  be  ashamed  to  show  his  face  in  the  university 
town,  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  any  of  those  colleges 
which  formerly  he  had  frequented  so  proudly. 

He  had  telegraphed  for  a  dogcart  to  the  hotel  at 
Thetford,  and  this  he  found  awaiting  him  at  the 
station.  New  officials  there  knew  nothing  of  "the 

52 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

convict"  or  his  story.  Indeed,  they  treated  him  with 
much  deference,  and  as  he  drove  through  the  town 
on  the  Honiton  Road,  he  met  more  than  one  towns- 
man who  had  known  him  and  bestowed  respectful 
salutation  upon  him. 

These,  in  truth,  were  difficult  to  interpret.  A 
locality  is  very  loyal,  and  it  may  be  that  such 
worthy  folk:  thought  little  the  worse  of  one  of  their 
own  members  who  had  "bested"  the  Londoners.  In 
any  case  young  John  Canning  had  conferred  much 
notoriety  upon  the  district;  and  where  is  the  coun- 
tryman who  does  not  love  notoriety  or  welcome  elo- 
quently the  appearance  of  a  "piece  in  the  papers"  ? 

And  so  they  touched  their  hats  to  old  Canning's 
son,  and  went  to  their  homes  to  tell  their  wives  and 
children  that  he  was  out  of  prison  and  gone  over  to 
Honiton  to  see  his  father.  The  man  himself,  as- 
tonished not  a  little  at  the  reception,  drove  on  mean- 
while full  of  thought  and  of  some  little  hope. 

It  was  the  hour  of  sunset  then.  The  west  showed 
a  glorious  heaven  of  fire,  broken  to  great  jagged 
peaks  of  golden  light  and  crowned  by  a  mighty 
tiara  which  searched  the  blackness  of  the  cloud  be- 
low as  with  the  glow  of  flames  immeasurable.  A 
delicious  scent  of  the  new  grass  filled  all  the  air. 
There  were  lanes  of  craB-apple  trees  bowed  to  their 
burdens ;  a  spreading  heath,  wan  and  lonely  but  full 
of  loveliness.  All  this  would  be  a  sea  of  heather  by 

53 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

and  by,  Canning  reflected,  though  few  would  launch 
the  boats  of  a  pilgrimage  upon  it.  This  vast  deso- 
lation delighted  him,  for  it  ministered  to  his  desire 
to  escape  from  men.  Let  him  build  a  hut  upon  this 
plain,  and  humanity  might  go  unremembered  to  the 
end  of  his  days. 

He  reflected  upon  it,  letting  the  horse  go  as  he 
would,  and  surveying  all  the  prospect  from  the  hill 
which  rises  above  Euston  Park  and  its  cascades. 
His  own  village  lay  a  little  way  beyond,  and  even 
as  he  descended  the  hill  he  met  the  local  Methodist 
minister,  John  Tapp,  riding  toward  Thetford  on  his 
bicycle.  This  worthy  fellow  had  formerly  been  a 
carpenter;  but  he  had  spent  many  a  long  night  in 
school,  and  could  tell  you  more  about  Ruskin  than 
some  of  the  commentators.  His  welcome  to  "the 
convict"  was  frank  and  immediate. 

"I'm  heartily  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Canning,"  he 
said;  "we  heard  that  you  were  coming,  but  were 
not  sure  about  the  day.  It's  to  make  a  long  stay 
this  time,  I  hope — you  owe  that  to  all  of  us." 

"I  fear  not,"  Canning  rejoined ;  "I  have  no  plans, 
but  I  am  afraid  Honiton  will  not  be  amongst  them 
when  they  are  made.  And  how  is  everybody,  Mr. 
Tapp?  How  is  my  father?" 

"Poorly — very  poorly.  It's  the  head  which 
troubles  him.  He  hardly  remembers  a  thing  from 
day  to  day.  But  there's  one  person  a  father  never 

54 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

forgets,  and  that's  his  only  son.  You'll  give  him 
great  joy  to-night,  Mr.  Canning;  you'll  make  his 
heart  lighter." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that,  Mr.  Tapp?" 
"I  believe  it  as  sure  as  I  believe  anything  in  this 
world.  He'll  kill  the  fatted  calf  when  you  come 
home.  And  there'll  be  no  brothers  to  complain 
about  it.  You  won't  find  Honiton  changed,  Mr. 
Canning.  We  never  change  down  here.  If  you 
brought  Oliver  Cromwell  to  life,  he'd  find  his  way 
about  Honiton  just  as  he  did  when  he  was  alive. 
Of  course  some  of  them  are  fathers  and  mothers  of 
families  who  were  only  children  when  you  were 
here.  But  that  happens  to  all  of  us,  and  a  poor 
thing  for  the  country  if  it  did  not." 

He  went  on  in  a  lighter  mood;  but  always  re- 
turned to  the  assurance  that  the  village  would  wel- 
come the  home-comer  and  had  kept  a  warm  place 
for  him  in  their  hearts.  When  Canning  left  him,  it 
was  with  a  promise  to  visit  him  on  the  following 
day  and  take  tea  with  Mrs.  Tapp;  and  hurrying  on 
now  he  entered  Honiton  just  as  it  was  growing 
dark — but  not  so  dark  that  Martin,  the  blacksmith, 
did  not  wish  him  a  resounding  "Good  night,  sir," 
nor  every  little  girl  drop  him  a  curtsy.  Truly  did 
this  excellent  Tapp  seem  to  be  speaking  the  truth 
when  he  hinted  that  Honiton  would  not  remember. 
Canning  had  planned  twenty  schemes  of  the  knowl- 

55 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

edge  when  he  entered  the  farm  gates  at  last,  and 
called  for  Mike  to  come  and  take  the  horse. 

Just  an  old  farmhouse,  brick  built  and  strag- 
gling, with  a  byre  and  stable  upon  the  right  hand, 
and  an  open  straw-yard  upon  the  left.  People  told 
you  that  it  had  been  built  in  Tudor  days,  and 
pointed  to  terra  cotta  tiles  with  their  Tudor  roses 
still  upon  them.  The  beams  and  panelings  were  of 
English  oak,  brown  and  knotted  and  sagging  above 
giant  hearths  where  the  logs  blazed  during  the  bit- 
ter winters.  A  great  sitting-room  to  the  right  as 
you  entered  the  house  had  been  old  John  Canning's 
haven  for  ten  years  now.  Here  he  lived  his  life, 
attended  nights  and  mornings  by  old  Betty,  the 
road-maker's  wife;  but  he  was  alone  after  sunset, 
and  often  slept  in  the  great  room  with  the  doors  of 
the  house  unbarred  and  open  to  any  stranger  who 
cared  to  enter  them.  Here  his  son  found  him;  here 
they  met  after  the  black  years. 

"Father,  it  is  I,  John — did  you  not  expect  me, 
father?  I  have  just  come  from  London — surely 
they  told  you?" 

The  old  man,  whose  long  white  hair  straggled 
down  upon  his  bent  shoulders,  sat  in  a  great  arm- 
chair by  the  window.  Despite  the  warmth  of  the 
day  a  little  fire  blazed  upon  the  open  hearth,  and 
gave  a  welcome  suggestion  of  homeliness ;  but,  save 
for  the  figure  of  the  master,  the  room  seemed  but 

56 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

little  changed  since  John  Canning  had  left  home. 
The  same  dominating  oak  bookcase  still  boasted  its 
family  Bible  and  copy  of  Southwell's  Book  of  Mar- 
tyrs. The  press  for  the  linen  stood  over  against  the 
southern  wall;  there  were  the  alabaster  figures  un- 
der glass  cases,  which  his  mother  had  loved.  The 
chief  actor  in  the  scene  alone  bore  witness  to  the 
passing  of  the  years,  for  he  was  now  bent  down  to 
the  earth  which  should  engulf  him  presently.  His 
life  was  lived;  he  hardly  recognized  his  son. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked,  and  then,  "Is  that  you, 
Michael?  Why  do  you  stand  there — what  do  you 
say?" 

"It  is  I,  father — your  son,  John.  You  must 
know  me.  Look  at  me  and  say — it  is  your  son." 

He  knelt  at  his  father's  side  and  pressed  the 
trembling  hands  to  his  forehead.  A  child's  desire 
for  love  and  the  servitudes  of  affection  overcame 
him.  He  was  John  Canning,  the  boy,  come  home 
from  Cambridge  and  fresh  from  his  mother's  em- 
brace. 

"Father,  you  know  me  now?" 

"Ay,  ay — my  son  John.  They  told  me  you  had 
gone  away.  Come  nearer,  lad — ay,  my  son.  Well, 
well,  these  be  strange  times  surely.  Was  it  from 
Cambridge,  did  you  say?  Ay,  and  the  old  mother 
not  here,  the  old  mother  gone  from  us.  A  true 
woman  that,  John — and  your  mother.  Did  you  see 

57 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Michael  as  you  crossed  the  yard  ?  My  eyes  are  that 
poor  I  can  see  nothing.  Give  me  my  glasses,  lad — 
help  me  to  my  feet." 

He  put  out  palsied  hands  and  felt  all  about  him  as 
though  the  touch  would  help  the  deficiencies  of 
sight.  The  misery,  the  desolation,  the  silence  of  the 
house  filled  his  son  with  awe.  Here  his  father  had 
endured  this  living  death  for  more  than  five  years. 
Was  it  because  of  what  had  been?  He  did  not  be- 
lieve that  it  was,  and  yet  the  dread  that  it  might  be 
remained. 

"Let  me  give  you  my  arm,  father.  Do  you  wish 
to  go  out?  I  will  take  you.  We  will  go  down  the 
village  together.  You  should  not  be  alone.  Why 
do  they  leave  you  like  this?  Where  are  they  all?" 

He  spoke  at  hazard,  and  obtained  an  answer 
without  intelligence.  The  old  woman,  Betty,  ad- 
vised by  the  blacksmith  that  the  young  master  had 
come  home,  now  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  room 
and  dropped  a  sweeping  curtsy.  She  was  logical 
enough,  for  she  had  just  emerged  from  the  ale 
house  where  her  faculties  had  been  refreshed. 

"They  told  me  Master  John  had  come  home," 
she  began,  "and  that  I  would  not  believe.  I  hope  I 
see  Mr.  Canning  well — I  hope  you  find  the  Squire 
better,  sir?  Lord,  he  have  been  that  poorly  this 
winter  time.  Such  a  cough,  such  trouble  in  his 
limbs — but  he'll  be  better  for  seeing  Master  John 

58 


'June!"  he  cried  in  amazement. 


THE,   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

surely,  and  I  wish  you  welcome,  sir,  with  all  my 
heart." 

She  went  on  to  add  that  Benson,  the  innkeeper, 
had  driven  to  Ingham  station  with  the  dogcart,  and 
would  return  presently  with  the  meat  for  supper. 
Her  activities  were  remarkable  under  this  startling 
provocation  of  the  young  Squire's  return,  and  she 
did  not  forget  her  role  of  gossip.  Canning  had  the 
five  years'  news  of  Honiton  as  it  were  in  a  breath. 
He  was  right  glad  to  take  his  father  out  for  a  little 
air,  and  to  escape  the  harridan's  tongue. 

"Why  do  you  put  up  with  that  old  woman, 
father?"  he  asked,  as  they  went;  "why  don't  you 
have  proper  servants?  Surely  there  are  many  who 
would  be  glad  to  serve  the  Squire.  You  must  be 
very  uncomfortable  with  such  an  attendant  as 
that?" 

"Ay,  my  lad;  but  what  would  I  do  with  serv- 
ants? I've  but  a  few  years  before  me,  and  want 
'em  for  my  own.  When  you've  lived  as  long  as  I 
have,  you'll  come  to  say  that  a  man  is  better  alone. 
Let  me  go  a  little  slower,  John — I'm  not  the  man  I 
was,  as  you  can  see.  Ay,  time  does  march,  to  be 
sure,  and  the  quicker  he  goes  the  slower  we  get.  Is 
that  the  parson  yonder  or  another?  I  be  half  blind 
most  days  and  don't  know  night  from  morning. 
This  will  be  something  extra  for  the  village,  John 
— my  word,  how  folks  will  talk!" 

59 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

This  latter  thought  appeared  to  give  him  both 
pride  and  consolation;  and  Canning  now  perceived 
that  some  very  real  emotion  had  prompted  the  pil- 
grimage abroad.  This  fine  old  fellow  had  gloried 
in  his  son's  success,  though  it  meant  nothing  to  him 
personally — for  every  penny  John  had  sent  to  him 
had  been  faithfully  banked  at  Thetford,  and  lay 
there  still  as  a  hidden  treasure  of  which  he  alone 
guarded  the  secret.  When  the  crash  came,  old 
farmer  Canning  but  dimly  perceived  its  meaning. 
The  Londoners  had  been  too  much  for  the  lad ;  but 
he  would  yet  hold  his  own.  It  may  be  that  he  felt 
the  shame  very  keenly — his  son  always  suspected 
that  it  was  so;  but  here  at  Honiton,  on  this  night  of 
his  return,  he  could  say  that  his  suspicions  were  ill- 
founded.  Was  not  his  father  now  showing  him 
proudly  to  that  little  world  wherein  his  life  had  been 
lived?  "My  son  John,  who  was  such  a  great  man 
in  London."  Ah,  the  pity  of  it  all! 

They  traversed  the  main  street  and  stood  a  little 
while  before  the  old  church,  its  early  English  tower 
blackly  silhouetted  against  a  mellow  sky.  Here 
father  and  son  had  worshiped  together  many  a 
Sunday;  here  old  John  Canning  had  led  his  wife  to 
the  altar;  here  his  little  baby  girl  had  been  buried 
and  often  mourned.  The  church  was  the  centre  of 
the  Squire's  spiritual  world,  as  the  village  of  his 
material  hopes.  He  loved  to  linger  in  its  shadow; 

60 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

liked  well  to  recall  the  names  of  dead  friends,  and 
to  remember  the  neighborly  acts  they  had  done 
him.  To-night,  perhaps,  his  thoughts  were  more 
concerned  with  the  living  and  their  eulogies.  They 
also  must  welcome  his  son — they  must  know  that 
young  John  had  come  back  to  Honiton,  and  that 
the  village  was  honored  by  his  coming. 

And  so  the  tour  was  made — to  the  cottages,  the 
parsonage,  and  the  inn.  When  they  returned  the 
old  fellow  was  quite  exhausted,  and  spoke  but  rarely 
during  the  simple  supper  the  old  woman  had  pre- 
pared. Ten  o'clock  found  him  in  his  bedroom,  and 
at  half-past  his  son  walked  in  the  gardens  of  his  old 
home  and  wondered,  as  he  smoked  his  last  cigar,  if 
he  would  ever  see  Honiton  or  his  father  again. 

What  hope  had  he  here?  What  content  could 
this  kindly  absolution  bring  him?  He  might  re- 
ward these  people  richly,  and  yet  reward  them  to 
their  undoing.  His  affection  for  his  father  could 
take  no  overt  shape,  for  he  perceived  that  the  day 
of  circumstance  had  gone  by.  Better  by  far  leave 
things  as  they  were,  and  go  out  into  the  world  to 
conquer — as  he  must  conquer  with  the  power  of 
money  at  his  command.  If  he  had  any  consolations 
of  his  visit,  they  were  those  of  his  father's  pride 
and  love.  The  old  fellow  appeared  to  know  noth- 
ing of  the  shame — John  was  still  his  beloved  son, 
and  must  be  feasted  and  set  upon  his  right  hand. 

61 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

This,  at  least,  Canning  believed,  and  in  this  he  re- 
joiced. Come  what  might,  there  remained  one  to 
honor  him;  one  roof  beneath  which  he  would  find 
a  throne. 

He  finished  his  cigar  in  the  silent  garden,  and 
returned  leisurely  toward  the  house.  Honiton  was 
fast  asleep  by  this  time,  and  not  a  sound  broke  in 
upon  its  rest.  His  own  home,  showing  lighted  win- 
dows, took  a  picturesque  shape  in  the  darkness,  but 
remained  a  home  of  phantoms — of  the  dead  who 
had  been  his  kinsfolk,  of  the  living  from  whom  he 
was  separated  by  so  impassable  a  gulf.  So  vivid 
were  the  impressions  that  when  he  perceived  a  fig- 
ure in  the  dining  room  before  him,  he  was  quite  pre- 
pared to  place  it  also  among  the  phantasmagoria  of 
his  brain.  Here,  however,  imagination  deluded 
him,  for  the  figure  was  that  of  a  living  man;  of  one 
who  acted  no  longer  a  part  to  deceive  the  villagers, 
but  spoke  all  his  mind  in  a  frenzy  of  shame  and 
anger  which  sleep  had  been  unable  to  control. 

Thus  the  truth  came;  thus  was  deception  made 
known — the  son  standing  in  the  porch,  the  father 
believing  himself  alone  in  the  house  as  he  had  been 
alone  so  many  nights.  Vain  words  of  the  shame 
came  incoherently  now  from  old  Canning's  lips,  as 
though  the  dam  of  speech  had  been  suddenly  re- 
leased, and  all  the  torrent  of  the  past  released.  He, 

62 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

John  Canning,  whom  all  men  had  honored,  thus  to 
bring  a  convict  into  the  world.  His  only  son — 
the  son  whom  he  had  loved,  that  he  should  be 
ashamed  of  him!  Again  and  again  he  repeated  the 
frenzied  words,  tottering  to  and  fro  with  feeble 
steps,  shielding  his  eyes  with  a  palsied  hand,  crying 
to  his  dead  wife  to  bear  witness — an  awful  accus- 
ing figure,  from  whom  even  the  strongest  might 
have  shrunk  in  horror.  And  the  son  shrank  from 
it,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands  and  fleeing  the 
house.  Good  God!  that  it  should  be  this — that 
the  night  should  have  revealed  what  the  day  had 
hidden ! 

For  hours  Canning  walked  the  silent  lanes  pray- 
ing for  the  day.  This  village  had  become  as  a  place 
accursed.  Plainly  he  had  no  longer  any  hope  in 
England.  He  thought  of  all  that  had  happened 
since  the  hour  of  his  release — the  acquisition  of  for- 
tune; the  contempt  and  then  the  fawning  apologies 
of  friends  and  acquaintances;  the  discovery  that 
the  woman  he  loved  had  been  the  first  to  forget 
him;  the  advice  of  many,  "make  a  new  home  in  a 
new  country."  Ambition  warred  against  the  truth, 
spurned  it,  would  have  defied  it.  His  old  craving 
for  power  and  dominance  troubled  him  anew  with 
a  thousand  temptations. 

He  would  yet  win  men's  homage,  compel  a  worn- 

63 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


an's  love,  beget  children  who  would  honor  him. 
Hie  rising  sun  put  a  seal  upon  his  resolution.  He 
left  Honiton  secretly,  walking  to  a  remote  country 
station  and  taking  the  train  thence  for  London. 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


BOOK  II 
THE  ISLAND 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   BEACON 

JESSE  of  the  Pharos  had  almost  come  up  to  the 
gate  of  the  Castle  when  she  detected  the  glare  of 
the  beacon,  over  upon  the  eastward  side  of  the 
island,  and  she  set  off  at  once  to  run  down  toward 
the  sea. 

After  all,  her  errand  had  been  quixotic  enough, 
and  she  welcomed  any  excuse  to  abandon  it.  For 
what  right  had  she  to  be  at  the  Castle  at  all  now 
that  the  unknown  Englishman  had  purchased  it  and 
was  coming  over  to  be  the  lord  of  Bell  Island  and 
the  master  of  its  people  ? 

None  had  questioned  her  title  hitherto,  and  she 
had  come  and  gone  as  she  pleased.  But  these  were 
new  days,  and  must  bring  submission — if  not  of 
pride  at  least  of  custom.  Jesse  reflected  with  a 
heavy  heart  that  the  gates  of  the  Castle  would  be 
shut  upon  her  henceforth.  Had  not  the  word  gone 
out  to  the  people — her  father's  word,  the  word  of 
a  man  whom  all  obeyed  and  would  obey :  "No  truck 
with  the  stranger — closed  doors  and  barred  win- 
dows and  silence  always" — for  what  right  had  he 

67 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

upon  Bell  Island?  What  title  but  that  of  his  money, 
which  these  simple  folk  despised? 

She  understood  the  truth  but  dimly  during  the 
first  days  of  its  propagation ;  but  now,  at  this  sum- 
mons from  the  sea,  she  understood  it  wholly.  The 
glorious  night  of  summer,  the  lowering  clouds,  the 
south  wind  moaning  in  the  gulf,  above  all  the  bea- 
con's glow  shimmering  over  yonder  against  the 
giant  cliffs,  were  not  these  true  harbingers  ?  A  ship 
had  been  sighted,  she  said,  and  was  putting  into  the 
harbor.  The  day  of  the  truth  was  at  hand.  To- 
morrow must  bring  the  strangers  in  among  them. 

She  ran  with  light  steps  and  naked  feet,  the  wind 
playing  havoc  with  her  unkempt  hair,  and  tossing  it 
about  her  shapely  white  neck.  But  twenty  years 
old,  she  had  the  limbs  of  a  grown  woman,  the  fine 
rounded  limbs  of  one  who  had  put  no  restraints 
upon  nature  since  the  days  of  her  early  childhood. 
A  quick,  active  brain,  given  to  odd  contrasts, 
troubled  her  with  many  thoughts,  but  chiefly  those 
of  the  scene  before  her.  Who  had  kindled  the 
beacon,  and  why?  None  knew  the  secrets  of  deep 
and  shore  so  well  as  she.  The  signal  had  been 
made,  she  said  presently,  to  wreck  the  Englishman's 
ship  and  bring  it  upon  the  dreaded  Spanish  Rock. 
There  could  be  no  other  reason.  Her  father,  he 
whom  they  called  old  Japhon  of  the  Pharos,  he  had 
spoken  and  the  men  had  obeyed  him.  Jesse  shiv- 

68 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

ered  at  the  knowledge.  Must  they  not  answer  for 
such  a  deed  as  this  ? 

Answer,  but  to  whom?  Did  the  law  of  England 
run,  then,  in  that  little  island  but  ten  miles  from 
the  coast  of  Devon?  Would  English  ships  be  sent 
because  an  English  ship  had  been  lost  ?  Old  Japhon, 
scarred  and  fierce  and  masterful,  would  have 
laughed  at  such  a  story.  Was  he  not  the  magis- 
trate, and  did  not  Roger  Bard,  his  henchman,  act 
for  constable?  What  had  Bell  Island  to  do  with 
the  law  ?  Yesterday  any  man  might  have  answered 
the  question,  but  to-night  some  hesitated  to  answer 
it.  A  new  master  was  coming  among  them — com- 
ing to  rule  at  the  old  stone  house  they  called  in  all 
good  faith  "the  Castle."  He  would  bring  the  Law 
to  be  his  servant — a  story  at  which  rugged  heads 
were  shaken  and  coarse  beards  were  pulled.  Let 
God  take  the  man's  ship  while  it  was  yet  at  sea,  and 
that  would  be  the  end  of  it.  A  fig  for  the  Law,  then 
— for  what  had  the  Law  to  do  with  the  Spanish 
Rock? 

Jesse,  be  it  said,  was  still  among  the  law-abiding. 
She  did  not  wish  the  stranger  to  come  to  Bell 
Island,  but  would  have  done  nothing  to  keep  him 
away.  A  woman's  heart  rebelled  against  the  treach- 
ery— a  woman's  curiosity  wished  the  voyager 
ashore.  While  with  one  voice  she  mourned  her  de- 
parting liberty,  with  another  she  condemned  the 

69 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

ruse  which  would  establish  liberty.  Were  not  those 
wild  sons  of  the  sea  gathered  down  yonder  like 
vultures  awaiting  their  prey?  Were  not  they,  her 
friends,  about  to  work  a  treachery?  Skirting  the 
great  cliff  fearlessly,  she  looked  down  into  the  abyss 
and  spied  out  their  hiding-place.  There  were  five  of 
them,  she  said,  with  old  Abe  Benson  at  their  head. 
And  they  had  kindled  a  fire  of  tar  barrels,  and 
watched  the  flames  as  the  wreckers  of  old  times 
many  a  night  in  the  famous  days. 

Now,  it  was  a  black  dark  night,  and  an  angry  sea 
racing  in  the  dangerous  channel  which  lies  between 
Bell  Island  and  the  shores  of  Devon.  Southward, 
the  Government  lighthouse  flashed  alternate  stars 
of  white  and  crimson,  but  sent  no  beam  to  discover 
the  English  ship.  Nor  could  Jesse's  keen  eyes  espy 
it  in  the  intervals  of  clouds.  Lying  there  at  full 
length  upon  the  very  edge  of  a  monstrous  cliff,  the 
beacon  burning  brightly  below  her,  the  weird  voices 
of  storm  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  peered  into  the 
darkness  and  asked  of  it  the  secrets.  Who  was  this 
stranger,  and  why  did  he  come  to  Bell  Island? 
Would  he  bring  a  wife  with  him,  or  come  alone? 
The  woman  put  these  questions,  but  Japhon's 
daughter  answered  them.  Frank  Benson  had  done 
this  thing,  she  said.  No  other  but  Abe  Benson's 
son  would  have  been  clever  enough  to  think  of  it; 
the  son  who  had  whispered  wild  words  of  love  into 

7° 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

her  ears  not  an  hour  ago,  and  had  persecuted  her 
these  many  months.  Jesse  laughed  lightly  at  the 
memory,  and  with  something  of  the  savage  in  her 
tone.  Evidently  she  was  not  unwilling  that  men 
should  strive  for  her,  and  consent  to  their  endeav- 
ors now  sent  her  to  the  shore. 

She  would  go  down  and  face  the  wreckers !  The 
resolution  came  instantly,  and  was  not  to  be  gain- 
said. Dangerous  as  the  path  might  be,  difficult  the 
way,  she,  Jesse,  would  face  the  peril  that  the 
stranger  might  come  safely  to  Bell  Island.  And 
now  she  was  glad  that  her  feet  had  been  trained  to 
the  cliff's  path,  and  that  no  fashion  of  civilization 
encumbered  her.  Clinging  surely  to  root  and  shrub, 
she  began  to  descend  the  cliff  in  the  darkness.  The 
wind  beat  upon  her,  but  did  not  daunt  her.  She 
looked  straight  down  at  the  surging  waters  and  had 
no  fear  of  them.  Yes,  she  might  fall,  but  that 
would  be  but  as  a  dream  of  her  sleep — downward 
in  an  ecstasy  of  flight,  as  a  bird  that  swoops  upon 
its  prey.  Such  wild  thoughts  were  inborn  and  of 
her  very  being.  She  dwelt  upon  the  situation,  and 
remembered  that  men  would  call  her  brave. 

And  so  step  by  step  down  the  cliff  side  until  she 
leaped  upon  the  plateau,  some  fifty  feet  from  the 
waters,  and  confronted  the  astonished  men.  Given 
to  the  common  superstitions  of  the  island,  half 
ashamed  of  their  occupation,  dreading  unknown 

71 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

penalties,  they  sprang  up  at  her  coming  as  at  that 
of  an  accuser.  Frank,  Abe  Benson's  son,  alone 
stood  firm.  He  watched  her  covertly  and  with 
pride. 

"What  do  you  do  here — what  does  this  mean?" 
she  asked  them  wildly.  Not  a  man  but  her  un- 
couth lover  could  answer  her;  and  he  with  voice 
ironical. 

"We  are  trying  to  put  the  stranger's  ship  on  the 
Spanish  Rock.  It  was  your  father's  orders." 

"My  father's!  Say  that  to  his  face  and  I'll  be- 
lieve it." 

And  then  quickly  she  cried,  "Cowards!  Do  you 
think  that  you  will  go  unpunished?  I  will  tell  the 
English  stranger  myself." 

Some  one  laughed  in  the  darkness  and  muttered 
an  aside,  to  the  end  that  it  would  be  well  enough  to 
tell  the  English  stranger  when  he  came  ashore. 

The  others  sat  doggedly,  watching  the  deceiving 
flame.  It  was  just  like  old  Japhon's  daughter  to 
come  down  here  and  play  the  part  of  Mistress  Mar 
All.  Yet  not  a  man  of  them  dared  to  tell  her  so, 
although  she  was  already  busy  upon  their  handi- 
work. Yes,  "truth,"  as  that  drunken  fellow  Tom 
Weeds  informed  the  island  on  the  morrow,  she  beat 
out  the  fire  with  one  of  their  own  brands,  burning 
her  pretty  feet  and  arms  while  she  did  it,  and  call- 
ing them  cowards  all  the  while.  And  this  was  the 

72 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

more  unfortunate  because,  just  as  the  dripping 
flame  went  seething  into  the  water,  the  English 
yacht  was  in  the  very  cove's  mouth,  and  would  have 
been  on  the  Spanish  Rock  before  a  man  could  have 
counted  twenty.  They  heard  the  captain  roar 
"Luff!"  and  saw  the  ship  go  about.  And  still  they 
did  not  speak. 

The  maddened  girl  beat  down  the  flames,  but  not 
before  they  vignetted  her  face  and  arms,  and  so 
fired  them  about  in  the  golden  light  that  those  at  sea 
had  a  fine  vision  to  guide  them.  Another  age  would 
have  spoken  of  a  miracle  and  of  the  seaman's  Ma- 
donna coming  to  their  aid.  As  the  thing  went,  those 
on  the  ship,  when  they  had  time  to  breathe  again, 
asked  a  common  question,  "Who  is  she?"  and  being 
answered  "Old  Japhon's  daughter,  the  man  of  the 
Pharos,"  were  as  wise  as  before. 

Though  in  truth  the  captain  added — 
"She  were  always  mad,  little  Jesse,  but  a  lady 
for  sure,  which  nobody  will  gainsay." 


73 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN     ISLAND     LOVER 

THE  men  left  the  cove  one  by  one,  silent,  but  not 
ashamed.  There  would  be  no  English  ship  in  the 
harbor  of  Bell  Island  to-night,  and  God  alone  could 
answer  for  the  morrow.  Their  glances  askance  at 
Jesse  were  not  of  fear,  but  of  that  gaucherie  of  their 
manhood  which  would  not  reason  with  a  woman, 
knowing  her  to  be  in  the  right,  but  rejoicing  in  their 
own  wrong.  Abe  Benson's  son  alone  remained,  and 
he  went  over  and  sat  by  Jesse's  side  upon  a  ledge  of 
the  rock  overlooking  the  racing  waters. 

Now  here  was  one  of  the  island's  children  who 
had  been  educated  on  the  mainland — over  at  New- 
ent  in  Gloucestershire;  a  sleek  curly-haired  young 
fellow  who  spent  his  days  hanging  about  old 
Japhon's  gardens,  and  his  nights  writing  tragedies 
which  never  would  be  played.  To  him  Jesse  was 
Divinity — yet  with  something  sour  in  the  ritual  of 
worship,  and  a  feeling  that  he  would  have  done  bet- 
ter for  himself  over  in  England.  A  very  passionate 
lover,  he  would  have  been  a  dangerous  one  for  a 

74 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

little  more  courage  and  something  added  to  his  reso- 
lution. But  Jesse  could  silence  him  in  an  instant 
when  she  was  of  the  mind,  and  once  she  had  struck 
him — a  blow  he  would  harbor  against  the  day  of 
his  opportunities.  For  the  rest  he  had  not  the 
smallest  doubt  that  he  would  marry  her  some  day 
— though  marriage,  to  be  sure,  was  less  in  his  mind 
than  possession,  for  which  he  planned  both  day  and 
night. 

This  was  the  lover  who  now  crossed  to  Jesse's 
side  and  sat  there  for  a  little  while  in  silence.  The 
darkness  upon  the  sea  had  been  broken  for  a  mo- 
ment by  a  blue  light  on  the  yacht's  deck,  and  after 
that  by  the  rockets  which  the  English  skipper  fired 
to  learn  his  position.  When  these  had  sunk  hissing 
into  the  sea,  and  the  English  ship  had  been  headed 
northward,  Franklin  ventured  to  speak  to  Jesse. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  Jesse?  You  know  your 
father  wished  it?" 

"My  father!    How  can  you  say  that,  Frank?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  he  asked  them  to  do  it 
or  anything  of  that  sort.  But  we  know  what  he 
wanted.  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
been  loyal  to  us.  Surely  you  don't  want  a  stranger 
lording  it  up  at  the  Castle  ?  That  won't  suit  you  any 
more  than  it  will  suit  us.  Bell  Island  has  belonged 
to  our  own  people  for  five  hundred  years.  \Vhy 
should  we  put  up  with  foreigners?" 

75 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Because  we  are  too  poor  to  keep  them  out.  Oh, 
you  are  all  mad.  What  would  have  happened  if  the 
ship  had  gone  ashore,  and  the  Englishman  had  been 
saved?  Murderers — are  you  all  murderers,  Frank?" 

He  laughed  with  some  sense  of  the  shame. 

"We  should  have  got  them  out  with  the  rocket 
apparatus.  Don't  say  we  are  monsters,  Jesse." 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"You  would  not  have  stirred  a  hand  to  save  them. 
It  is  a  lie,  Frank.  Why  do  you  tell  it  to  me?" 

"Well,  if  you  won't  listen But  perhaps  you 

know  the  Englishman.  Perhaps  you  want  him  here, 
Jesse?  He'll  be  asking  you  up  to  the  Castle,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  Oh,  yes,  I  understand  it  all. 
Fine  goings  on,  and  Jesse  at  the  head  of  them. 
Well,  I  shan't  stand  that,  anyway.  I  tell  you  so 
before  the  man  comes  ashore." 

"The  man!  What  right  have  you  to  speak  of 
him  in  that  way?" 

"Call  him  my  master,  then.  Will  that  please 
you  ?  Shall  I  doff  my  cap  to  him,  Jesse  ?  I  tell  you 
this,  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  he  were  the  King  of  Eng- 
land. Don't  you  understand  what  this  place  means 
to  us  all?  We're  a  free  people;  we  have  our  liber- 
ties, our  religion " 

"Religion— oh!" 

She  laughed  long  and  drolly,  her  fine  sense  of 
irony  responding  to  the  humor.  Jesse  was  mostly 

76 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

self-taught,  but  the  Celt  in  her  revolted  at  the  hy- 
pocrisy, and  lost  no  opportunity  of  condemning  it. 

"Your  religion  which  would  have  made  murder- 
ers of  you  to-night.  Oh,  preserve  that,  please.  Set 
a  temple  on  the  hill  for  your  religion!" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean — and  I'll  tell  you 
this:  You'd  better  be  careful.  The  people  will 
stand  no  nonsense.  They  have  made  up  their  mind 
that  this  man  Canning  shall  not  live  at  the  Castle, 
and  they  won't  put  up  with  interference  from  you. 
No  more  will  your  father,  I  know.  Ask  him  when 
you  go  home  to-night.  I  speak  in  your  interests, 
Jesse.  You  know  what  it  would  mean  to  me  if  any 
harm  came  to  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  you  would  make  a  play  of  it — and 
go  to  London  to  sell  it.  Are  you  still  making  plays, 
Frank?  Why  don't  you  put  your  brother  Irwin 
into  one?  Tell  the  people  how  he  treated  Nance 
Weede.  That's  what  they  like  in  plays,  if  the  pa- 
pers are  to  be  believed." 

He  shuffled  at  the  rebuke. 

"Irwin's  a  blackguard.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
got  on  with  your  Englishman  fine.  Mark  you, 
Jesse,  if  you  make  a  friend  of  a  man  like  that,  no 
good  will  come  of  it.  Your  father's  a  big  man  here, 
but  he  would  be  less  than  the  servants  in  the  Eng- 
lishman's house.  Don't  you  forget  that.  No  good 
would  come  of  anything  of  that  sort,  and  if  harm 

77 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

came  of  it  I  would  kill  him — so  help  me,  God,  I 
would  kill  him." 

"My  poor,  dear  Frank,  how  terrible !  Is  this  also 
to  be  in  the  play?  And  you  so  brave.  Are  you 
sure  you  have  the  courage  to  do  it,  Frank?" 

He  stood  up  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  black  face 
of  the  sea. 

"I  wish  to  God  he  had  been  drowned  this  night," 
he  cried,  and  then — "What's  your  interest  in  him? 
Oh,  a  fine  gentleman,  with  a  gold  chain  to  put 
round  your  neck,  and  diamonds  for  your  ears! 
Hussies  like  such  things,  and  you're  going  begging 
for  them.  I  told  them  it  would  be  so.  Do  what 
you  like,  I  said,  Jesse  Fearney  will  get  the  better  of 
you.  She  wants  the  Englishman  ashore.  She's 
waiting  to  go  up  to  him  whenever  he  sends  for  her 
— that's  Jesse — that's  the  girl  who's  been  your 
mistress " 

He  was  shaking  with  rage  and  passion,  and  al- 
most incoherent  in  the  quest  of  insult.  But  Jesse, 
rising  without  a  word,  began  to  descend  the  path  to 
the  hamlet,  and  did  not  answer  him  a  single  word. 


THB  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


CHAPTER  IX 

JESSE   VISITS   THE   CASTLE 

JAPHON  of  the  Pharos  lived  on  the  northeastern 
shore  of  Bell  Island,  in  an  old  squat  farmhouse, 
from  whose  windows  you  could  see  the  Devon 
shore.  Sixty-two  years  had  he  been  master  of  the 
house,  and  his  father  nearly  sixty  before  him.  Of 
French  descent,  the  people  of  Auvergne  had  known 
the  family  by  the  name  of  Fernier — but  whenever 
old  Japhon  had  need  of  a  surname,  he  called  himself 
Fearney,  for  that  was  a  name  Bell  Island  could  un- 
derstand. 

Let  it  be  said  that  this  need  was  rare.  To  all  the 
people  he  was  old  Japhon  of  the  Pharos — for  his 
house  was  built  where  a  Roman  beacon  had  stood, 
and  the  full  style  was  his  by  all  right  of  tradition. 
A  vain,  crabbed,  self-centred  old  man,  he  might 
have  been  a  born  Puritan  out  of  East  Anglia,  and 
no  Celtic  man  from  France.  So  much,  at  least,  a 
student  would  have  argued,  though  the  island 
troubled  but  little  about  it.  Sufficient  for  the  peo- 
ple that  his  word  was  law,  and  that  he  was  their 
lord  for  lack  of  any  other. 

79 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Jesse,  his  only  child,  had  lost  her  mother  when 
she  was  but  eleven  years  of  age.  From  that  time 
she  enjoyed  the  liberties  of  Bell  Island,  mainly  as- 
serted by  an  aversion  from  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  a  propensity  for  riding  the  family  ass  astride. 
Three  governesses  had  come  and  gone,  and  left  her 
but  little  advanced  in  the  desirable  arts.  She  could 
not  play  the  piano,  and  stolidly  refused  to  sing  a 
note.  A  drawing  master  from  Truro  declared  that 
her  gifts  with  the  pencil  were  amazing,  and  should 
be  cultivated — a  tribute  she  rewarded  by  caricature. 
In  this  latter  gift  she  excelled,  and  it  was  com- 
toonly  said  that  the  islanders  were  more  afraid  of 
her  pencil  than  of  old  Japhon's  tongue. 

In  justice  it  should  be  written  that  the  old  man's 
seeming  indifference  had  its  excuses.  Why  should 
he  forbid  Jesse  to  roam  among  the  seven-and-fifty 
people  who  constituted  the  population  of  the  island  ? 
Were  they  not  fishermen,  or  the  sons  and  wives  and 
daughters  of  fishermen?  Was  there  one  among 
them  who  would  dare  to  pay  anything  but  respect 
to  Japhon  Fearney's  daughter?  He  did  not  believe 
it.  Let  the  girl  go  or  come  as  she  pleased — Bell 
Island  stood  but  for  the  garden  of  her  home. 

Hence  Jesse's  freedom — hence  her  being  abroad 
after  ten  o'clock  of  a  summer's  night,  when  the 
fishermen  were  gathered  together  in  the  Spanish 
cove  and  the  English  ship  sought  the  harbor.  In 

80 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

truth,  it  was  nearly  eleven  when  she  climbed  the 
steep  path  to  the  farmhouse  door  and  passed  up  to 
her  room  by  the  kitchen  stair.  To  Hannah,  the  con- 
fidential maid,  she  merely  whispered  a  question,  and 
was  answered  fairly. 

"Yes,  master  have  gone  to  bed — I  told  him  you 
were  in  an  hour  ago." 

So  the  girl  crept  up  to  her  room;  and  moving 
about  it  with  secret  steps,  she  bethought  her  of  all 
that  had  happened  this  night  and  must  happen  to- 
morrow. A  stranger  at  the  Castle,  which  the  true 
lords  of  Bell  Island,  that  unhappy  family  of  the 
Morencys,  had  so  long  neglected.  All  changed,  all 
new  in  the  life  of  the  people.  The  closed  gates  re- 
opened, the  dusty  rooms  swept  out — perhaps  music 
and  laughter  where  there  had  been  silence  and 
gloom.  Jesse  would  have  been  no  woman  had  the 
thought  displeased  her.  Alone  here,  she  despised 
the  cant  of  loyalty  and  opposition.  What  wrong 
had  the  Englishman  done  to  these  people?  Let 
them  cry  out  when  they  were  hurt. 

She  slept  upon  it,  yet  slept  but  ill.  The  "might 
be"  tortured  her  with  strange  doubts.  Deep  down 
in  her  heart  was  the  desire  of  man's  love,  the  re- 
bellion against  circumstance,  the  Celtic  embers 
smouldering.  Surely  she  was  not  born  to  be  the 
wife  of  such  a  man  as  Frank  Benson,  a  fisherman's 
son,  for  all  his  education?  The  belief  possessed  her 

81 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

that  she  would  yet  go  forth  from  Bell  Island  to 
reign  in  some  distant  kingdom.  And  this  was  a 
haunting  thought,  and  it  drove  her  from  her  bed 
before  the  sun  was  up  and  sent  her,  barefooted, 
and  with  a  heavy  knitted  shawl  about  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  across  the  turf  toward  the  Castle.  She 
would  visit  it  for  the  last  time.  There  would  be  no 
other  opportunity,  for  the  Englishman  must  land 
this  day. 

Now,  the  Castle  stands  facing  the  southeast — a 
long,  low  house,  turreted  and  embattled;  but  all 
done  in  the  primitive  fashion,  as  any  manor  house 
on  the  mainland;  and  no  more  entitled  to  be  called 
a  castle,  perhaps,  than  your  suburban  villas  upon 
Hampstead  Heath. 

True,  some  of  its  rooms  were  grand  enough,  and 
more  than  one  of  them  boasted  fine  paneling,  and 
ceilings  so  wrought  over  with  Tudor  roses  and 
fleurs-de-lis  that  even  the  Philistine  might  admire 
them.  Some  of  its  furniture  was  famous,  and  had 
come  from  Paris  in  the  days  following  upon  the 
Revolution.  A  music  room  could  show  you  an  an- 
cient organ  with  a  fine  carved  case,  and  a  piano  of 
Chopin's  time.  There  were  a  few  books  in  the 
library,  and  some  highly  colored  monkish  work  be- 
tween their  covers.  But  all  said  and  done,  the  place 
was  no  more  than  a  big,  rambling  house,  with  some 
pretty  terraces  overlooking  the  sea,  and  a  great 

82 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

stone  wall  to  shut  out  the  Danes — should  excursion 
bring  those  very  desirable  guests  to  English  waters. 

Jesse  Fearney  knew  every  stone  of  this  ancient 
building.  Its  doors  had  never  been  closed  to  her 
since  the  Morencys  deserted  it.  For  who  should 
close  them?  Not  Martin,  the  keeper  thereof,  or  his 
good  wife  Sarah,  not  the  agent  who  lived  at  Bide- 
ford  and  rarely  crossed  the  waters.  So  she  roamed 
where  she  pleased;  spent  long  days  in  the  old  li- 
brary ;  hunted  the  armories,  laid  bare  the  cupboards. 
"It  be  natural  to  see  her  here,"  old  Martin  said. 
And  truly,  that  was  so.  She  was  just  the  figure  for 
such  a  house  as  that. 

Jesse  crossed  the  open  grass  land  about  three 
o'clock  of  this  summer's  morning,  and  arrived  at 
the  Castle  gate  at  four.  The  sun  was  just  up  in  the 
eastern  sky  then,  and  a  shimmer  of  light  danced 
upon  the  hither  waters.  A  glance  out  to  sea  showed 
her  no  English  yacht  nor  any  strange  ship.  The 
boats  of  her  own  people  were  but  specks  upon  a 
hazy  horizon — the  loom  of  the  smoke  hovered  above 
the  cottages  of  the  cove,  and  spoke  of  women  al- 
ready awake  and  watching  there.  But  the  Castle 
itself  had  no  story  to  tell  her,  save  that  of  its  new 
owners'  probable  return  to  the  English  shore;  and 
this  consoling  her,  she  dared  its  silent  courtyard  and 
entered  the  house. 

This  would  have  been  a  difficult  task  for  any 

83 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

other,  but  easy  for  Jesse.  Not  a  watch-dog  but 
knew  her  step,  and  squatted  fawning  at  her  ap- 
proach. The  great  barred  windows  flashing  to  the 
lights  of  morning,  were  no  harbingers  of  defeat  to 
her.  The  bolted  doors  did  not  detain  her,  for  she 
passed  them  by  swiftly;  and  running  round  to  the 
old  Bell  Tower,  she  pushed  open  the  tiny  wicket  at 
its  foot,  and  thus  gained  the  narrow  stairway 
within.  Thence  a  second  door  admitted  her  to  the 
Long  Gallery — that  proud  apartment  which  is  Bell 
Island's  glory,  its  one  title  to  magnificence. 

Here  Jesse  stood  a  while,  breathless  and  doubt- 
ing. A  sun  of  morning,  winging  pale  beams 
through  the  long  windows  of  the  alcoves,  searched 
the  gallery  to  its  depths  and  declared  a  haunting 
emptiness,  which  afflicted  her  with  new  thoughts. 
Never  before  had  she  been  conscious  of  such  min- 
gled emotions  of  awe  and  solitude.  Spirits  of  the 
past  might  have  breathed  upon  her  while  she  stood. 
She  gazed  as  in  a  trance  at  the  monstrous  portraits 
of  dead  Morencys,  at  the  vast  oaken  coffers,  the 
broad  benches,  the  fantastic  tapestries;  and  each 
whispered  the  echo  of  a  story.  Dead  warriors  lived 
again  in  that  instant,  noble  women  were  the  figures 
of  the  gallery.  All  the  play  of  courtly  comedies, 
the  magnificence,  the  pageantry  of  the  house  warred 
in  imagination  upon  its  abiding  emptiness.  Swiftly 
as  the  visions  came,  they  passed  as  swiftly — to  leave 

84 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  girl  panting  and  afraid — she  who  had  never 
known  fear  on  Bell  Island  since  she  was  old  enough 
to  know  anything  at  all. 

Jesse  laughed  at  herself  for  this  experience, 
though  she  liked  it  but  ill.  Her  conceit  of  life  had 
been  supreme  hitherto,  but  this  was  a  blow  upon  it. 
If  her  dreaming  left  any  clearly  defined  impression 
at  all,  it  was  that  of  her  own  presumption  in  thus 
intruding  upon  so  famous  a  company.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  she  understood  vaguely  what  is  meant 
by  heritage  and  the  privileges  of  birth.  Was  she 
not  but  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  was  not  this 
famous  room  consecrated  to  the  nobles  of  old  time? 
A  sense  of  shame  and  humiliation  accompanied  the 
awakening  to  the  truth.  The  Englishman  who  had 
bought  the  Castle,  surely  he  also  had  been  born  to 
such  a  heritage.  She  could  imagine  no  other  than 
a  noble  reigning  upon  Bell  Island,  and  she  believed 
that  it  must  be  so.  A  little  later  on,  running  to  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  alcove,  she  gazed  over 
toward  the  English  coast  and  wondered  if  his  ship 
were  yet  in  sight.  Of  course  he  would  be  an  aristo- 
crat, and  he  would  people  these  silent  rooms  with 
the  splendid  figures  which  were  their  due. 

There  are  no  qualities  of  silence  so  potent  in  im- 
pressions as  those  of  the  early  morning  hours. 
Jesse  had  visited  the  Long  Gallery  many  a  day,  but 
never  at  such  an  hour  as  this.  Looking  out  wist- 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

fully  over  the  great  rolling  downs  which  lie  be- 
tween the  Castle  and  the  sea,  she  remembered  that 
hers  had  been  the  sovereignty,  hers  the  dominion 
until  that  eventful  day.  Men  had  paid  her  homage, 
women  their  tribute  of  envy.  She  had  come  and 
gone  as  she  willed.  Jesse  of  the  Pharos  always,  but 
Jesse  the  Queen  where  men's  hearts  were  in  the  bal- 
ance. And  now  the  sceptre  must  be  laid  down. 
This  Englishman  would  bring  a  wife  to  Bell  Island. 
Henceforth,  she,  Jesse,  would  be  but  farmer  Fear- 
ney's  daughter. 

She  sighed  at  the  thought,  and  turned  away  from 
the  window.  Some  torn  page  of  a  forgotten  philos- 
ophy preached  the  word  that  these  things  must  be. 
Yet  a  little  stubbornly  she  asked  why  must  they  be. 
What  did  she  lack  of  wit,  of  beauty  or  of  youth 
that  the  strangers  would  possess?  To  be  sure,  she 
had  no  finery  to  speak  of,  and  the  dead  beaux  would 
blush  to  see  the  shapely  bare  feet  which  now  trod 
the  gallery.  Here  humor  became  her  saving  grace, 
and  laughing  lightly  she  went  over  to  an  old  coffer 
in  an  embrasure  of  the  window  and  lifted  therefrom 
an  ancient  robe.  Oh,  yes,  trust  a  woman  to  have 
discovered  this  long  ago,  this  precious  heritage 
which  the  Morencys  had  guarded  so  faithfully.  Did 
not  the  Princess  Mary  wear  that  very  gown  when 
there  was  a  great  ball  at  the  Castle  to  celebrate 
Trafalgar  day?  Jesse  knew  the  story — she  could 

86 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

also  tell  you  exactly  how  the  dress  must  be  folded, 
for  she  had  folded  it  many  a  time. 

And  now  she  put  it  on,  laughing  at  herself  for 
the  drollery.  Little  as  England  had  loved  France 
in  those  famous  days,  this  splendid  robe  had  caught 
something  of  the  Empire  fashion,  and  fitted  the 
young  girl's  figure  to  perfection.  Ah,  the  gold  and 
fine  brocade,  the  soft,  shining  silk,  the  jewels 
broidered  into  the  panels !  True,  it  had  not  been  de- 
signed to  go  with  stockingless  legs  and  wild  un- 
kempt black  hair  tossing  rebelliously  upon  bare 
shoulders — but  Jesse  could  laugh  at  that  as  she  stood 
before  the  old  gold- framed  mirror  and  asked  herself 
what  sort  of  a  picture  the  farmer's  daughter  made. 
Was  it  a  picture  that  the  Princess  Mary  of  old  time 
would  have  envied?  Vanity  perched  upon  a  white 
shoulder  said -that  it  was.  The  Englishman  also  was 
of  that  opinion. 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  X 

FLIGHT   FOLLOWS  DISCOVERY 

JESSE  heard  the  click  of  the  lock  with  ears  trained 
to  all  the  omens  of  sound.  So  great  was  her  dread 
of  discovery,  that  for  an  instant  she  was  afraid  to 
turn  her  head.  Who  came  at  such  an  hour?  Not 
old  Martin,  she  knew  his  step,  not  Sarah,  his  wife, 
for  her  shuffle  would  have  discovered  her.  A 
stranger  then,  and  undoubtedly  from  England.  And 
so  the  fear  passed,  and  shame  unutterable  took  its 
place. 

Now,  John  Canning  had  come  ashore  last  night 
after  all,  and  slept  in  the  first  bedroom  old  Sarah 
could  prepare  for  him.  His  object  was  chiefly  curi- 
ous. He  wished  to  see  this  famous  Bell  Island  he 
had  purchased,  to  learn  something  of  its  people,  to 
know  whether  he  would  do  well  to  make  his  habita- 
tion on  its  shores.  A  stormy  passage,  a  little  hu- 
mor upon  the  fisherman's  part  (as  his  skipper  as- 
sured him)  were  of  no  account  at  all.  These  did 
not  deter  him.  He  slept  soundly  enough  through 
four  good  hours,  and  awoke  to  this  pattering  of 

88 


pretty  feet — or  should  it  be,  to  the  habit  four  years 
and  more  of  prison  had  fostered? 

The  question  concerned  him  but  little.  Be  sure  it 
concerned  Jesse  not  at  all.  Sufficient  for  her  to  sec 
in  the  glass  both  the  object  discovered  and  the  fig- 
ure of  the  discoverer.  A  tall  man,  finely  built,  but 
with  the  seal  of  care  upon  his  handsome  face — for 
his  dress  little  to  be  said,  save  that  it  was  Eastern 
and  flowered,  and  had  been  vended  by  a  West  End 
hosier  as  the  very  latest  thing  in  recherche  dressing 
gowns.  To  an  observer  the  contrast  would  have 
been  humorous  to  the  point  of  absurdity.  But  these 
two  found  it  mighty  serious — the  man  surely  be- 
lieving that  he  had  discovered  a  mad  girl  in  the 
house,  and  she,  that  the  day  of  humiliation  would 
never  be  forgotten. 

He  crossed  the  floor  with  bare  feet,  and  touched 
her  upon  the  shoulder. 

"My  good  girl !"  he  exclaimed  in  the  best  paternal 
manner,  "what  on  earth  does  this  mean?" 

Jesse  took  off  her  broidered  robe  and,  having 
folded  it  very  carefully,  she  laid  it  again  in  the 
coffer  whence  she  had  taken  it. 

"I  thought  that  I  was  alone,"  she  said  at  last,  but 
so  deliberately  and  in  such  a  tone  that  his  attention 
was  instantly  arrested. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  servants  of  the  house?" 

"Servants— oh!" 

89 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  mean  are  you  the  house- 
keeper's daughter?  Surely  you  must  tell  me  why 
you  have  the  right  to  be  here." 

"I  have  no  right — I  am  the  daughter  of  Japhon 
Fearney,  who  keeps  the  farm.  Sometimes  I  come 
here — when  the  house  is  empty." 

She  stood  in  one  of  the  alcoves,  gazing  wistfully 
toward  her  home.  The  man  sat  upon  an  oak  bench 
and  watched  her  critically.  The  face  won  less  upon 
his  attention  than  the  charm  of  the  voice,  and  the 
bewitching  pride  of  the  pose.  She  was  like  a  bird 
which  had  been  trapped  in  a  room  by  a  foolish 
flight,  and  now  poised  itself  in  sullen  and  repentant 
submission.  A  touch  of  the  hand  to  the  window 
and  the  bird  would  fly  away.  John  Canning  did  not 
feel  moved  to  such  an  act  of  humanity.  He  had  no 
desire  whatever  to  open  the  door  of  the  cage. 

"I  have  heard  of  your  father,"  he  said  presently ; 
"you  would  be  Miss  Jesse.  Report  says  that  both 
of  you  are  very  angry  with  me.  Is  that  true?" 

She  turned  upon  him,  quite  fearless  now,  and 
looked  him  straight  into  the  face. 

"We  do  not  want  strangers  upon  the  island.  It 
is  natural.  They  know  nothing  of  the  people.  We 
have  lived  here  so  long  that  nowhere  else  could  be 
a  home  to  us.  You  come  here  because  you  have 
money  and  want  a  fine  house.  You  will  be  the 


90 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

master,  and  my  father  will  be  nobody.  You  can- 
not expect  him  to  wish  you  welcome." 

"Oh,  I  don't.  Is  he  one  of  those  who  lighted  a 
fire  on  the  cliff  side  to  wreck  my  yacht  last  night? 
— I  hope  not." 

She  started,  and  flushed  crimson. 

"My  father  was  not  among  them." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  that — for  some  of  them  will 
certainly  go  to  prison." 

Jesse  turned  away  her  head  and  did  not  speak. 
Here  was  the  open  challenger — this  stranger  against 
Bell  Island,  the  glove  thrown  down  instantly,  the 
cynicism  of  possession  so  soon  displayed.  For  the 
time  being  she  disliked  the  newcomer  very  much, 
and  passed  wholly  to  the  people's  side. 

"I  will  tell  them  what  you  say!"  she  exclaimed 
almost  fiercely;  "they  will  be  very  much  afraid — I 
will  tell  them  that  you  are  sending  them  to  prison." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  watching  her  critically. 

"That  would  be  hardly  a  fair  story,"  he  rejoined, 
"since  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Then  why  do  you  say  so?  Why  do  you  speak 
to  me  like  this?" 

"To  warn  you — lest  any  friends  of  yours  were 
foolish  enough  to  be  out  last  night.  Let  us  have  no 
misunderstanding.  I  don't  care  twopence  about  my- 
self— I  like  an  independent  people.  But  there  are 
others  less  liberal  in  their  views,  and  the  com- 

91 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

mander  of  the  cruiser  Marathon  is  one  of  them.  He 
was  off  here  in  his  ship  last  night;  and  if  I  do  not 
misunderstand  my  own  captain,  he  has  sent  a  wire- 
less message  ashore.  So,  you  see,  we  begin  with 
trouble  upon  Bell  Island,  although  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

Jesse  heard  him  patiently.  The  feeling  that  an 
undercurrent  of  mockery  flowed  beneath  the  smooth 
speech  provoked  her  to  antagonism.  He  was  laugh- 
ing while  he  told  her  that  he  did  not  care. 

"My  friends  will  be  very  much  obliged  to  you/' 
she  said,  with  a  jerk  of  her  shoulder  which  would 
have  expressed  indifference;  "of  course  they  were 
very  foolish — boys  always  are." 

"Boys !    Is  Abe  Benson  a  boy  ?" 

"Oh,  then  you  know  ?" 

"I  know  perfectly — the  names  are  all  written 
down  for  me.  I  shall  keep  them  as  a  souvenir  of 
my  first  visit  to  this  house.  They  will  go  very  well 
with  that  ancient  garment  in  which  you  did  me  the 
honor  to  receive  me.  Oh,  do  not  be  angry — I  quite 
understand." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  Was  this  kind- 
ness or  the  jest?  Did  he  really  understand  her — 
the  foolish  romanticism,  the  vain  silliness  which  had 
provoked  the  act?  or  was  he  but  mocking  her 
again?  Jesse  knew  not  what  to  believe.  She  had 
never  felt  so  ashamed. 

92 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  did  it,"  she  said  quite  frankly; 
"if  I  had  known  that  you  had  come " 

"I  am  glad  that  you  did  not.  If  my  visit  is  to 
shut  this  house  to  you,  I  will  certainly  stay  away. 
Tell  your  people  also  that  I  wish  to  come  among 
them  as  a  friend.  Repeat  to  them  what  I  have 
said.  They  must  not  get  into  trouble;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  must  learn  to  act  like  men.  Tell 
them  I  will  have  no  more  nonsense.  Should  there 
be  any,  they  will  soon  find  out  who  is  master." 

She  promised  to  do  so,  vaguely,  as  a  child  who 
is  scolded  and  must  respond  in  platitudes.  The 
daring  of  her  intrusion  now  took  a  share  in  her 
thoughts,  and  moved  her  to  a  quick  decision  to 
quit  a  house  whose  master  had  the  right  thus  to 
address  her. 

"I  shall  tell  them,"  she  said  quietly.  "Of  course, 
I  myself  must  not  come  here  again — I  am  sorry 
to  have  been  found  here  this  morning.  Please  let 
me  say  good-by." 

She  moved  toward  the  door  at  the  farther  end, 
but  he  followed  her  quickly,  and  held  it  open  for 
her  to  pass. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "and 
do  not  forget." 

"Oh,  I  shan't  do  that,"  she  cried,  and  so  she  left 
him. 


93 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XI 

JESSE  IS  QUESTIONED  BY  HER  FATHER 

IT  was  six  o'clock  of  the  morning  when  Jesse 
quitted  the  Castle,  and  nearly  a  quarter  to  seven 
when  she  arrived  at  the  farm.  The  promise  of 
dawn  had  not  been  fulfilled,  and  gloomy  clouds 
now  gathered  in  the  west  to  focus  a  clear  gray 
light  upon  the  green  downs,  and  to  show  the  whole 
extent  of  Bell  Island  as  though  it  were  figured  upon 
a  draughtsman's  plan.  A  swell  of  an  angry  sea 
still  surged  in  the  Channel,  while  over  toward  Eng- 
land, the  sun  still  shone  brightly  upon  the  foaming 
water  and  the  spreading  sails  of  the  ships. 

Be  it  said  that  the  life  of  the  island  lay  almost 
wholly  upon  the  shore.  Few  of  the  fishermen  had 
any  time  for  husbandry,  and  such  as  were  disposed 
to  a  landsman's  occupation  farmed  no  more  than 
a  few  acres  down  by  the  cove  where  the  cottages 
stood.  Old  Japhon's  farm  was  of  some  extent, 
but  lay  almost  wholly  on  the  northeastern  shore; 
a  pasture  »farm  chiefly,  but  growing  sufficient  good 
wheat  for  the  fishermen's  daily  bread.  For  the 
rest  the  Morencys  owned  the  land — or  had  owned 

94 


THH   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

it  until  a  lawyer's  deed  transferred  it  to  the  Eng- 
lishman, of  whose  very  name  the  people  were 
ignorant. 

Here  was  an  affair  which  concerned  them  but 
little.  They  lived  on  the  seashore — the  sea  fed  and 
clothed  them.  Daring  sailors,  knowing  both  the 
inner  channels  and  the  open  deep,  they  cruised 
afar,  following  the  herring  in  the  summer  months  to 
the  North  of  Scotland,  and  coming  down  with  the 
shoals  even  to  the  bays  of  Devon.  Such  occupa- 
tion made  them  comparatively  rich,  and  they  spent 
long,  bleak  winters  at  their  cottage  doors,  or  if  not 
there,  then  upon  the  little  patches  of  fertile  soil 
which  should  give  them  vegetables  during  the  sum- 
mer. 

To  all  such,  the  man  of  affairs  was  Japhon 
Fearney.  He  had  been  the  Morencys'  agent  in  the 
old  days — he  held  power  from  the  Government 
under  an  old  charter  to  minister,  to  marry,  and  to 
bury.  A  zealot  for  a  simple  type  of  congregational 
Christianity,  he  preached  to  these  people  on  the  Sab- 
bath and  sat  in  judgment  upon  them  during  the 
week.  From  him  they  bought  the  flour  to  knead 
their  bread,  the  wool  to  make  their  clothes — and,  in- 
deed, they  feared  him  exceedingly,  believing  him 
to  be  greater  than  the  lawyers,  whose  figures  loomed 
up  beyond  a  far  horizon  as  the  very  personification 
of  the  Evil  One. 

95 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

For  Japhon  Fearney  the  sale  of  Bell  Island  was  a 
tragedy  indeed.  If  tradition  were  to  be  believed, 
his  savings  were  so  considerable  that  he  had  once 
made  a  bid  for  the  property  himself ;  and,  believing 
that  there  would  be  no  other  purchaser  in  the  field, 
had  quarreled  over  a  matter  of  some  sixteen  hun- 
dred pounds.  Now  he  heard,  without  any  warning, 
that  a  stranger  had  purchased  the  Castle,  and  was 
coming  over  immediately  to  take  possession.  Not 
only  was  this  a  sore  blow  to  his  pride,  but  a  sharp 
rebuke  upon  his  imprudence — for,  as  he  told  him- 
self, he  had  publicly  declared  the  amount  of  his  for- 
tune by  his  offer  for  the  property,  and  could  not 
afterwards  deny  his  possession.  Let  men  ask  how 
Japhon  Fearney,  the  farmer,  came  to  possess  more 
than  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  there  would  be  a 
difficulty  in  answering  them.  He  had  dreaded  such 
inquiries  many  a  day;  he  dreaded  them  exceedingly 
now  that  John  Canning,  the  Englishman,  was  com- 
ing to  the  Castle. 

This  was  the  Japhon  Fearney  who  met  Jesse,  his 
'daughter,  as  she  returned  from  her  escapade,  and 
at  once  guessed  her  secret.  A  burly,  formidable, 
repulsive  figure,  the  old  man  stood  at  the  little  white 
gate  of  the  farm  while  the  girl  crossed  the  Downs 
and  watched  her  closely.  His  daughter,  yes ;  he  was 
proud  of  her  for  that,  proud  of  her  pretty  face, 
proud  of  her  pride — but  being  proud  he  was  not  the 

96 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

less  afraid.  Men  know  well  enough  when  a  woman 
has  a  mind  of  her  own — and  young  as  she  was, 
Japhon  Fearney  already  had  experience  both  of 
Jesse's  obstinacy  and  of  her  logic.  So  he  watched 
her  doubtingly  as  she  came  to  the  gate,  and  lifting 
his  shaggy  brows  at  her  approach,  he  shook  his 
stick  threateningly. 

"What  takes  you  from  the  house,  girl?  Where 
have  you  been  ?" 

"I've  been  to  the  Castle,  father." 

He  had  expected  the  answer,  and  yet  it  took  him 
aback.  Did  not  report  say  that  John  Canning 
landed  from  the  yacht  last  night? 

"You've  bin  up  there?  What  took  'ee,  girl? 
What  fool's  errand  is  this?" 

"I  go  there  often,  father — they  did  not  tell  me 
that  the  Englishman  had  arrived." 

"Then  ye  saw  him,  girl?" 

"I  saw  him — he  spoke  to  me." 

"Ay,  ay,  he'd  do  that  quick  enough.  Were 
they  pleasant  words  he  said  ?" 

"He  wishes  the  people  to  behave  themselves.  If 
they  do  not,  they  will  hear  of  it." 

"D'ye  mean  that  he  says  that  to  me?" 

"To  all  of  us.  We  are  to  be  his  obedient  servants. 
He  will  stand  no  nonsense."  She  uttered  the  words 
deliberately — looking  her  father  full  in  the  face  and 
following  with  keen  eyes  the  twitching  of  that  ex- 

97 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

pressive  mouth.  Her  father  was  angry,  surely — 
but  one  of  the  lessons  of  his  life  had  been  to  con- 
trol anger,  and  he  did  not  forget  it  in  this  moment. 
Jesse  did  not  mean  to  set  him  against  the  English- 
man, but  a  certain  obstinacy  of  her  pride  compelled 
her  to  do  so,  and  left  her  glad  that  she  had  spoken. 

"He's  a  brave  man,  surely.  I  could  give  him  a 
life  up  yonder,  if  I  said  the  word.  Behave  myself! 
Ay,  I'll  do  that !  Let  him  say  the  words  to  my  face 
and  he  shall  have  my  answer.  Is  he  what  they 
would  call  a  fine  man,  girl?  Has  he  a  head  on 
him?" 

"He  is  over  six  feet  tall,  father,  and  has  jet-black 
hair.  I  think  he  is  very  strong,  but  has  been  ill. 
His  voice  is  kind,  when  he  chooses.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man, and  wears  beautiful  clothes." 

"Where  did  you  see  him,  child?  How  did  you 
come  to  meet  him?" 

"I  thought  there  was  no  one  at  the  Castle,  and  I 
went  up  to  the  Long  Gallery.  He  came  in  before  I 
could  leave." 

"Did  he  forbid  you  the  house  ?" 

"Oh,  no;  he  asked  me  to  go  back.  'And  mind 
you  tell  the  people,'  he  said.  I  promised  him  I 
would,  and  so  I  begin  by  telling  you." 

It  was  all  very  bold  and  very  defiant,  nor  had 
Japhon  Fearney  the  wit  to  read  the  enigma.  Many 
wild  thoughts  were  in  his  head,  and  one  of  them  he 

98 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

expressed  as  bluntly  and  with  as  little  regard  for 
Jesse's  feelings  as  was  his  habit. 

"He'd  be  pleased  to  see  a  girl  like  you  in  his 
house.  You  were  civil  enough,  I'll  be  bound.  Ay, 
play  your  cards  wisely,  and  you  may  marry  him — 
the  man  that  is  to  be  my  master.  Now,  get  you  into 
the  house  and  give  me  my  breakfast.  There's  been 
fool  talk  enough.  I'll  hear  no  more  of  it."  He 
held  the  gate  open  and  she  passed  through,  setting 
her  bare  feet  flatly  upon  the  gravel  path,  and  hold- 
ing herself  with  all  the  dignity  Jesse  Fearney  could 
command. 

"You  would  like  Mr.  Canning's  manners,  father; 
he  is  a  gentleman,"  she  said,  and  with  that  for  a 
parting  shot  she  entered  the  house  and  began  to 
busy  herself  about  the  breakfast  table.  Here  she 
was  clever  enough,  and  although  all  housework 
was  distasteful  to  her,  she  did  it  in  a  way  that  sat- 
isfied even  so  churlish  a  critic  as  Japhon  Fearney. 
His  mood  softened  as  he  sat  at  the  lavish  board. 
He  began  to  talk  about  the  Englishman  quite  af- 
fably. 

"He  came  over  with  the  tide  last  night,  I'll  be 
expecting.  They  tell  me  'tis  to  see  he  has  bought 
no  pig  in  a  poke.  We'll  have  the  laugh  of  him 
there,  Jesse,  for  it  be  a  hunard  to  one  that  such  a 
man  will  know  nothing  of  the  charter.  Let  him 
overstep  it  a  foot,  and  I'll  have  the  law  on  him. 

99 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

None  but  a  fool  would  have  sent  such  a  message  to 
Japhon  Fearney,  and  as  I  shall  tell  him.  Now, 
do  you  care  to  give  him  no  right  to  be  uncivil  to 
either  of  us " 

"I,  father!    What  business  is  it  of  mine?" 

"A  pretty  woman  is  every  lone  man's  business. 
They  tell  me  he  has  no  wife." 

"Are  you  wishing  that  I  should  marry  him?" 

"I'm  wishing  that  you  shall  help  me  to  keep  him 
in  his  place.  'Tis  he  or  I  henceforth,  and  the  best- 
witted  one  at  the  top.  Now,  you  do  your  duty  by 
me,  and  we'll  show  what  the  Fearneys  are  made  of. 
There's  not  another  man  between  here  and  Exeter, 
I  do  believe,  who'd  send  me  such  a  message.  Bide 
a  bit,  and  I'll  know  how  to  answer  it." 

Jesse  heard  him  out,  and  then  smiled  at  such  de- 
lightful innuendo.  How  little  her  father  understood 
her  or  her  sex ;  how  vague  were  his  own  thoughts. 
Jesse  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Then  I  am  to  take  your  answer,  father?  Is 
that  what  you  mean  ?  Is  that  my  part." 

He  frowned  at  her  over  a  capacious  plate  heavily 
loaded  with  beef  and  potatoes. 

"You  are  to  do  what  every  clever  girl  knows 
how  to  do  when  she  has  a  mind  to  humble  a  man's 
pride.  If  you're  in  doubt,  I'll  show  you  the  way — • 
the  first  time  I  meet  the  man." 


100 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"Then  you'll  have  to  begin  now,  father,  for  here 
is  Mr.  Canning  at  the  door." 

It  was  a  regular  bombshell.  The  old  farmer 
had  a  mighty  napkin  tucked  about  his  chin,  but  he 
forgot  its  existence  when  he  stood  up  hurriedly  and 
peered  out  of  the  window  at  the  stranger.  There, 
surely,  was  the  Englishman  riding  the  old  chestnut 
horse  that  used  to  carry  Edmund  Morency  about  the 
island,  and  there  was  a  second  stranger  upon  the 
"knotty"  brown  cob,  who  used  to  be  the  pet  of 
Morency's  daughters.  What  a  thing  to  happen! 
That  the  man  should  pay  his  first  visit  at  such  an 
hour. 

"Do  you  run  up  and  straighten  yourself  a  bit, 
girl.  Keep  those  naked  feet  of  yours  out  of  the 
way.  I'll  be  going  out  to  have  a  clack  with  him. 
Leave  us  a  bit  until  I  have  had  my  way!" 

He  waved  her  off  with  his  hand,  and  throwing 
the  napkin  aside,  took  up  his  coat  and  went  quickly 
toward  the  gate.  John  Canning  was  still  fum- 
bling with  the  latch  as  he  came  up,  and  so  the  two 
faced  each  other  across  the  whitened  railings.  A 
greater  contrast  could  not  have  been  imagined — the 
farmer  and  the  financier,  the  man  of  the  downs,  the 
man  of  cities — yet  both  sprung  from  a  rural  stock, 
and  neither  willing  to  boast  an  ancestry. 

"Good  morning.  You  are  Japhon  Fearney,  the 
magistrate,  I  believe?" 

101 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"That's  so,  and  you  are  Mr.  Canning  from  the 
Castle.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye.  Walk  in,  please, 
sir,  and  bring  this  gentleman  with  you. 

He  opened  the  gate,  and  the  two  men  entered. 
The  rustic's  civility  claimed  Japhon  Fearney  in 
that  moment.  All  his  courage  melted  like  snow  be- 
fore the  soft,  warm  wind  of  manner  and  authority. 
Besides,  he  knew  that  he  would  be  afraid  of  the 
Englishman. 

"We'll  go  in  the  parlor,  sir,"  he  said  as  they  en- 
tered; "nobody  will  pry  upon  us  there — though,  for 
that  matter,  I  do  hear  that  you  have  met  my  daugh- 
ter already?" 

Canning  smiled. 

"Please  say  that  your  daughter  met  me — and  add 
that  I  was  very  glad  to  see  her." 

"Ay ;  but  she  always  had  the  run  of  the  old  house 
in  the  Morencys'  time,  and  no  one  was  there  to  tell 
her  you  had  come  ashore." 

"Although  it  would  seem  a  great  many  people 
were  aware  of  my  intention.  That's  what  brings 
me  here  this  morning  so  early.  I  return  to  Dover 
directly,  and  do  not  propose  to  settle  at  the  old 
house  for  some  week  or  two  yet.  When  I  do  re- 
turn, I  hope  there  will  be  no  beacons  at  the  Spanish 
cove.  You  will  make  it  your  business  to  see  that 
there  are  not." 

"I  don't  understand  you.    My  business  ?" 
1 02 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Certainly,  your  business.  You  are  a  magistrate, 
and  the  proper  person.  Surely  you  are  not  unaware 
of  what  took  place  last  night?  If  you  are,  I  must 
enlighten  you." 

Japhon  Fearney  had  rarely  been  addressed  in  this 
way,  and  for  a  moment  his  natural  pugnacity  and 
assertive  self-will  failed  him.  None  the  less  he 
strove  gallantly  to  put  a  good  case  forward. 

"They  do  tell  me  that  a  beacon  was  kindled  in 
the  cove.  'Twould  be  some  of  the  boys  larking,  I 
suppose.  If  there's  any  law  against  that,  'tis  at 
your  command,  Mr.  Canning — though  I  must  say 
it  would  be  a  poor  thing  to  come  among  us  with  a 
lawyer's  brief  in  your  hand.  Much  better  ask  the 
old  folk  to  flog  their  lads." 

"I'll  do  it — and  to  begin  with  the  old  seaman, 
Abe  Benson.  Now,  who's  to  flog  him,  Mr.  Fear- 
ney?" 

They  all  laughed  heartily,  Canning  and  Hobby 
in  spite  of  themselves,  the  old  man  to  cover  his  con- 
fusion. 

"Why,  surely,"  he  cried,  "old  Abe  be  sixty  if  he's 
a  day.  A  precious  bad  son  he  have,  too." 

"Would  that  be  Frank,  or  the  lad  they  call  Ir- 
win  ?" 

"Oh,  Frank's  well  enough,  though  a  head  for 
poetry  isn't  going  to  cut  much  corn  come  August. 
The  other's  the  trouble.  But  for  me  and  Abe,  he'd 

103 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

have  been  in  prison  last  Candlemas.  A  bad  sort  of  a 
boy,  Mr.  Canning,  believe  me." 

"Then  I  must  make  him  better.  I  must  help  them 
all,  Mr.  Fearney.  There's  a  great  deal  to  be  done 
for  this  place,  and  I  am  the  man  to  do  it." 

"That's  what  young  Morency  always  said,  until  I 
showed  him  the  charter.  'Don't  you  talk  about  such 
things  to  me,'  I  said,  'for  there's  the  law  to  be 
spoken  of  first  of  all.'  The  lawyers  will  have  shown 
you  the  charter,  sir — they'd  hardly  do  as  badly  by 
you  as  to  keep  it  from  you." 

Canning  looked  at  the  old  fellow  shrewdly.  He 
had  heard  of  this  wonderful  charter — even  then  in 
the  hands  of  a  famous  King's  Counsel  in  London, 
but  hitherto  he  had  paid  no  attention  to  it.  Now, 
however,  he  understood. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  the  document  you 
speak  of,  though  its  value  is  not  clear  to  me.  Of 
course  I  shan't  try  to  cram  gold  and  silver  into 
these  people's  hands  if  they're  asking  for  copper. 
In  any  case  they  must  begin  by  behaving  themselves, 
and  if  you  cannot  persuade  them  to  do  that,  I  must 
communicate  with  the  police  at  Bideford.  There 
is  to  be  no  more  nonsense,  Mr.  Fearney.  I  am 
master  here  for  the  future,  and  I  will  have  obedi- 
ence" 

"To  be  sure — I  have  heard  talk  like  that  before. 
Young  Morency  was  just  as  wild  about  it,  until  we 

104 


THE  FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 

gave  him  a  lesson  or  two.  You'll  find  a  trouble- 
some lot  of  lads,  sir,  and  they  won't  take  to  the  whip 
kindly.  So  much  I  say  as  a  magistrate,  who  is  going 
to  do  his  duty  as  between  rich  and  poor,  and  to  do  it 
fearlessly.  You  mustn't  talk  to  me  of  masters  or 
servants — I  know  none  but  the  King's  subjects." 

"Who,  it  appears,  are  engaged  just  now  in  trying 
to  put  the  King's  ships  on  the  rocks." 

"The  King's  ships!  That's  news  to  me.  What 
King's  ship  comes  to  Bell  Island?" 

"Ask  the  commander  of  the  cruiser  Marathon, 
and  he  will  answer  you.  I  shall  make  my  own  re- 
port. I  wish  I  could  say  something  of  your  dili- 
gence in  the  matter,  but  that  appears  to  be  impos- 
sible. The  Admiralty  will  hardly  be  content  with 
your  floggings,  Mr.  Fearney.  They  will  want  to 
know  what  your  constable  is  doing." 

"I  shall  tell  them,  sir.  To  be  sure  I  have  done 
myself  less  than  justice  in  this  matter,  and  must 
ask  your  patience.  It  shall  not  occur  again,  Mr. 
Canning — I  give  you  my  word  upon  that.  Had  I 
known  anything  of  it " 

"Oh,  but  they  say  you  put  them  up  to  it.  It's 
common  talk  everywhere." 

"Then  they  lie — I'll  answer  them  to  their  faces, 
they  lie." 

The  old  man  was  thoroughly  alarmed  by  this 
time,  and  his  quivering  lips  and  distended  nostrils 

105 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

plainly  betrayed  his  fear.  A  shrewd  judge  of  men, 
Canning  watched  him  closely  and  determined  that 
the  lesson  was  sufficient.  He  did  not  wish  to  make 
Japhon  Fearney  his  enemy. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  said,  "and  of 
course  I  shall  tell  the  admiral.  These  people  are 
really  most  untruthful,  and  an  example  should  be 
made  of  some  of  them.  I  leave  it  to  you,  Mr.  Fear- 
ney— my  business  takes  me  to  England,  and  it  will 
be  some  days  before  I  return.  Will  you  promise 
me  an  easy  passage  next  time — at  least  a  safe  an- 
chorage?" 

"Most  surely  I  will.  And  thank  you,  sir.  It  will 
be  a  kindness  to  write  to  the  admiral.  I've  been  a 
magistrate  here  now  nigh  thirty  years — > — " 

"And  do  not  wish  to  see  another  in  your  place.  I 
quite  understand  you — you  may  rely  upon  me." 

He  offered  his  hand,  and  the  old  man  shook  it 
heartily.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  sent  him 
to  the  gates  with  his  guests,  and  he  stood  there  in  an 
attitude  of  civility  while  they  crossed  the  down  and 
descended  the  cliff  road  to  the  harbor.  Then  with 
bent  head  he  returned  to  the  house  to  meet  Jesse  in 
the  porch,  and  to  understand  wholly  what  this  day 
of  humiliation  meant  to  him. 

For  Jesse  had  changed  her  dress  while  he  had 
been  entertaining  the  Englishman,  and  she  now 
wore  a  pretty  gown  of  white  muslin,  and,  mirabile 

106 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

die  tit,  had  drawn  stockings  of  fine  silk  over  her  un- 
tamed ankles — a  spectacle  which  moved  the  old  man 
to  an  expression  of  anger  defying  all  reason. 

"Is  it  for  such  as  yon  you  bring  out  your  finery?" 
he  cried — and  then,  quivering  with  rage  and  hu- 
miliation and  shaking  his  stick  at  her,  he  shouted — 
'Take  them  off,  you  hussy.  Get  out  of  my  sight 
before  I  do  you  an  injury." 

She  obeyed  him  meekly — but  not  as  a  daughter. 
The  spoken  word  could  never  be  recalled,  nor  would 
she  forget  the  insult,  whatever  might  be  the  atone- 
ment. 


107 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XII. 

JAPHON    FEARNEY    ASKS    A    QUESTION. 

A  DAY  of  mist  and  rain  followed  upon  the  morn- 
ing of  John  Canning's  departure  for  the  mainland. 
It  was  five  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  before  the 
weather  cleared  at  all,  or  as  much  as  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine fell  upon  Bell  Island.  Shortly  after  that 
hour,  however,  the  clouds  broke  in  the  west  to  dis- 
close the  pale  gold  of  the  sinking  sun  and  the  shim- 
mering waves  of  a  placid  sea.  Hardly  a  breath  of 
air  stirred  in  that  heavy  atmosphere.  The  fishing 
boats,  driven  out  of  the  harbor  by  giant  sweeps,  lay 
rolling  to  the  swell  as  they  waited  for  the  wind.  The 
great  steamers  left  dense  smoke  clouds  behind  them 
as  they  steamed  west  or  east,  for  home  or  the  At- 
lantic. 

Old  Japhon  Fearney  did  not  leave  .the  farm  until 
the  clock  had  struck  six.  He  had  not  seen  Jesse 
after  the  violent  outbreak  of  the  early  morning, 
nor  did  he  wish  for  an  interview  with  her.  A  vain 
obstinacy  still  clung  to  false  themes  of  justifica- 
tion. He  accused  her  in  his  heart  of  disloyalty 
toward  himself  and  the  people  of  the  island — but 

108 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

chiefly  toward  himself.  Had  she  not  dressed  up  to 
please  the  Englishman  who  crossed  the  channel 
with  a  whip  in  his  hand?  Were  not  her  prefer- 
ences already  declared  in  the  scorn  with  which  she 
had  received  his  just  rebuke?  And  all  this  against 
her  own  father,  to  whom  she  owed  her  very  title  to 
rule  over  this  primitive  community.  An  ancient 
platitude  reminded  him  of  the  fables  concerning 
woman's  ingratitude — he  swore  that  he  would  re- 
member them  henceforth. 

So  here  was  this  proud  old  man,  angered  and 
humiliated,  setting  off  from  the  farm  about  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening,  and  making  his  way  quickly 
toward  the  northern  cove  and  the  sea.  His  own 
sailing  boats  were  not  housed  in  the  old  harbor, 
but  in  a  little  creek  of  the  sea  which  looked  straight 
up  the  Bristol  Channel,  and  had  water  enough  for 
a  ten-ton  yacht  at  all  the  tides.  The  cove  itself 
lay  distant  two  miles  from  the  ancient  port  and  the 
fishermen's  cottages,  and  rarely  did  any  of  the  peo- 
ple betake  themselves  there.  Japhon  Fearney  be- 
lieved himself  to  be  quite  alone  when  he  began  to 
descend  the  narrow  wooden  stairway  which  led  to 
the  beach,  and  he  was  both  surprised  and  chagrined 
to  discover  Irwin  Benson,  old  Abe's  second  son,  at 
the  ladder's  foot,  and  to  hear  the  "Good  night"  with 
which  the  lad  would  have  left  him. 

Now  this  youth  was  a  notorious  scamp,  though 
109 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

liked  well  enough  by  the  people,  as  scamps  some- 
times are.  A  sheepish,  good-looking,  idle  boy,  with 
wonderfully  expressive  eyes,  he  had  never  had  any 
education  to  speak  of — and  while  he  refused,  when 
he  could,  to  take  his  place  in  his  father's  boat,  he 
avoided  as  cleverly  any  laborious  occupations  on 
land.  None  knew  him  better  than  Japhon  Fear- 
ney;  none  had  spoken  so  plainly  to  him  or  put  him 
more  often  to  public  shame.  And  now  were  these 
two  face  to  face  at  a  critical  moment  in  the  island 
story,  and  it  came  to  the  shrewd  old  magistrate 
that  Irwin  Benson  had  been  the  informer,  and  that 
from  his  lips  John  Canning  heard  the  story  of  the 
beacon  and  the  names  of  those  who  had  kindled  it. 

"Come  you  here,"  he  cried  sharply — and  the  boy 
came,  creeping  softly  over  the  yellow  sand  and  smil- 
ing at  every  step.  For  a  little  while  they  stood 
face  to  face,  Japhon's  rugged  brows  expressing 
many  emotions,  the  lad's  face  inscrutable  and  un- 
changing. 

"What  did  you  tell  the  Englishman  last  night? 
I'll  have  no  lies.  What  did  you  say  to  him?" 

"I  didn't  see  him,  Mr.  Fearney.  Why  do  you 
ask  me?" 

"You're  a  liar,  and  you  know  it.  You  were  out 
with  Tom  Weede's  daughter,  and  you  didn't  quit 
the  cottage  until  after  eleven.  Where  did  you  go 
then?" 

no 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"To  my  bed — where  else?    You  ask  my  father." 

"I  asked  him — d'ye  hear  that?  He  says  it  was 
one  o'clock  before  you  came  home." 

A  flush  passed  across  the  pale  face  as  the  words 
were  spoken,  but  there  was  no  other  evidence  of 
discovery.  Irwin  Benson  believed  himself  to  be 
Japhon  Fearney's  master,  but  he  had  not  the  words 
to  express  his  claim. 

"Oh,  lots  of  people  are  out  after  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,"  he  rejoined,  with  gathering  impudence — 
"you're  one  of  them,  Mr.  Fearney.  I've  often  seen 
your  boat  coming  in  at  two  or  three  of  the  morn- 
ing. Why  shouldn't  I  be  out  if  I  wish?" 

Japhon's  eyes  blazed  with  fury. 

"What  are  my  comings  and  goings  to  you,  lad? 
Answer  me  that" 

"Nothing  whatever,  Mr.  Fearney — but  you 
might  think  a  little  better  of  me  than  to  suppose  I'd 
tell  the  Englishman." 

Japhon  strode  forward  a  step,  and  seized  the 
youth  by  the  collar. 

"What  are  my  comings  and  goings  to  you?"  he 
repeated ;  "why  do  you  watch  me,  lad  ?" 

"Why,  I  don't  watch  you ;  but  I  can't  help  seeing 
things.  Jo  and  me  talk  about  it  sometimes,  but  we 
don't  think  nothing " 

He  halted,  amazed  at  the  anger  of  the  twitching 
face  which  now  confronted  him.  Japhon  Fearney 

ill 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

might  have  been  possessed  of  a  devil  as  he  uttered 
a  loud  and  almost  inhuman  cry,  and  began  to  beat 
the  lad  furiously.  Again  and  again  his  heavy  stick 
fell  upon  the  helpless  shoulders  of  the  pale  and 
shrinking  youth.  Gulls  went  whirling  away  at  the 
unaccustomed  sounds — even  the  fishermen  at  sea 
heard  the  doleful  cries,  and  spoke  of  them  upon 
their  return.  But  it  was  Jo  March,  Japhon's  boat- 
man, who  intervened  at  last,  coming  up  at  a  run 
from  the  creek  and  imploring  his  master  to  desist. 

"Oh,  sir,  sir,  for  God's  sake,  have  done!  What 
will  the  people  say  ?" 

Japhon  took  a  step  backward;  his  hands  were 
quivering,  there  was  froth  upon  his  lips. 

"I'll  teach  you  to  play  the  spy  on  me,"  he  cried. 
"Now,  go  and  tell  your  father  what  I've  done.  Say 
it  was  for  telling  lies  to  the  Englishman.  He'll 
give  you  another  dose,  and  rightly,  too.  Now  be 
off  with  yourself  before  I  do  you  an  injury." 

Irwin  Benson  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  went  off 
at  a  loping  trot,  not  unlike  that  of  a  wild  animal. 
The  pain  he  suffered  was  considerable,  but  fear  the 
greater  incentive,  and  he  did  not  cease  to  run  until 
he  had  gained  the  shelter  of  that  copse  of  plane 
trees  which  hides  the  farm  from  the  observation 
of  the  village.  Here  he  lay  panting  like  a  dog,  and 
quivering  with  passion.  What  a  fool  he  had  been 
to  speak  at  all!  What  a  madman  to  declare  himself 

112 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

so  prematurely!  He  knew  that  1t  was  all  an  idle 
tale — the  bravado  of  suspicion  which  investigation 
might  humble.  And  all  he  had  got  for  his  pains 
was  these  cuts  and  bruises  which  hurt  him  intoler- 
ably, and  would  leave  their  mark  for  many  a  day. 

Custom  had  made  for  Irwin  Benson  a  second 
home  of  this  little  wood.  Here  he  dreamed  through 
the  sunny  hours ;  here  he  lay  huddled  when  the  win- 
ter blasts  drove  him  to  shelter.  The  black  story 
which  the  village  told  of  Nance  Weede  and  her 
wrongs  had  its  beginnings  in  this  sheltered  copse 
which  the  islanders  despised.  And  now,  at  eventide, 
the  girl  Nance  came  up  to  the  place,  as  was  her 
habit,  and  espied  Irwin  lying  there.  No  longer  did 
she  expect  him  to  receive  her  with  burning  words 
of  love  and  reckless  kisses;  but  when  she  found  him 
weeping,  her  woman's  heart  went  out  to  him,  and 
slv  stooped  and  kissed. 

*•  Why,  Irwin  dear,  whatever  is  the  matter  with 
you?"  ' 

"Don't  you  mess  me  about ;  you  go  home  to  your 
father  and  tell  him  that  Japhon  Fearney  wants  the 
law  of  him." 

"Is  it  about  last  night,  Irwin?  I  knew  there'd 
be  trouble  about  that.  What's  he  been  saying  to 
you,  Irwin?  Has  he  struck  you?" 

"Oh,  he  and  I  will  have  that  out.  Do  you  go 
and  tell  your  father  as  Japhon  Fearney  will  have 

"3 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  law  on  all  of  us,  if  I  don't  have  it  on  him  first, 
for  what  we  did  at  the  Spanish  Rock.  I'll  mind  my 
own  business— <and  let  him  look  out  when  I've  fin- 
ished it." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  stop  with  you  to-night, 
Irwin  dear?  There's  long  nights  now  since  you  and 
me  were  out  together." 

"I  tell  you  no.  Go  to  your  father,  and  repeat 
what  I  say.  Do  you  want  us  all  in  prison  ?  You're 
a  wonder  to  talk,  Nance,  but  if  it  comes  to  doing  me 
a  good  turn,  there  isn't  any  one  slower  on  the 
island.  Do  you  think  I'm  in  the  mood  for  foolery 
to-night?  I  tell  you  he's  half  killed  me,  and  I'll 
have  the  law  on  him  yet — by  God,  I  will !" 

He  turned  on  his  face  and  began  to  cry  like  a 
child.  The  girl  stood  sadly  at  the  wood's  edge, 
gazing  out  to  sea  where  she  could  discern  the  white 
hull  of  Japhon  Fearney's  boat.  Then  she  set  off  for 
the  village  with  slow  steps. 

How  joyfully  had  she  come  to  this  place  in  the 
old  time !  How  much  had  God  willed  that  she  must 
suffer  because  of  it! 


114 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   RENDEZVOUS   UPON   THE   MAINLAND    AND   AFTER- 
WARD 

A  DANK  breeze  began  to  blow  from  west  by  north 
about  eight  o'clock  of  the  .evening,  and  helped 
Japhon  to  make  a  good  passage  to  Barnstaple  Bay. 
He  was  an  accomplished  seaman,  and  the  master 
not  only  of  the  half -decked  boat,  the  Pharos,  but 
of  a  couple  of  fishing  smacks  which  carried  his 
produce  to  the  mainland  and  brought  out  neces- 
sary merchandise  in  return. 

Few  ships  were  better  known  than  these  in  the 
Bristol  Channel,  or  excited  less  remark.  If  people 
talked  at  all,  it  was  about  the  parsimonious  habits 
of  the  old  fellow,  who  made  so  many  voyages  by 
night  that  he  might  not  lose  a  moment  of  the  work- 
ing day.  "There  be  old  Japhon  of  the  Pharos," 
they  would  say,  and  add — "Ay,  truts  'ee  to  be  up  to 
zummat  when  other  volks  be  asleep."  As  to  the 
excisemen,  they  had  given  up  Japhon  long  ago. 
Though  Bell  Island  was  a  free  port  by  an  ancient 
charter  dating  from  the  first  of  the  Charleses,  neither 
its  people  nor  its  privileges  gave  the  Customs  any 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

trouble.  Certainly  old  Japhon  himself  would  have 
as  soon  thought  of  trying  to  smuggle  brandy  or 
cigars  into  Barnstaple  as  of  dancing  a  hornpipe  on 
the  river  quay.  A  fine,  grave,  law-abiding  old  fel- 
low— who  would  suspect  him? 

So  his  voyages  excited  little  interest.  It  is  true 
that  he  was  always  invited  to  make  a  declaration 
when  he  landed,  and  that  his  cargoes  of  produce 
were  subjected  to  the  necessary  scrutiny — but  be- 
yond this  none  asked  him  questions  or  were  curious 
at  his  coming  and  going.  A  man  of  substance,  the 
people  said,  who  had  frequent  dealings  with  Jape, 
Angus  &  Snarth,  the  merchants  of  Barnstaple. 
They  envied  him  the  freedom  of  his  life,  for  in  their 
eyes  he  was  the  true  master  of  Bell  Island;  and 
when  the  property  was  sold,  surprise  attended  the 
fact  that  he  had  not  bought  it.  Now  for  the  first 
time  came  the  suspicion  that  Japhon  Kearney  was 
not  as  rich  as  the  people  had  supposed.  "The  old 
'un  have  put  a  tidy  bit  away,"  the  expression  used 
to  be — but  now  they  added — "I'll  warrant  'ee  don't 
do  better  with  the  land  than  others  who  have  gone 
before  him." 

Japhon,  we  say,  was  an  accomplished  seaman, 
and  he  was  rarely  accompanied  by  more  than  two 
hands  when  he  crossed  to  Barnstaple  or  Bideford. 
One  of  these  would  be  the  nigger  Jo ;  the  other  was 
a  Swede,  by  name  Isaacson,  a  hardy,  clever  youth, 

116 


THE  FORTUNATE:  PRISONER 

who  had  few  words  of  English,  and  did  not  often 
find  the  occasion  to  employ  them.  These  two  would 
keep  to  the  boat  while  their  master  went  up  to  the 
merchant's  offices  or  to  the  inns  where  other  farmers 
of  his  acquaintance  were  staying.  He  forbade  them 
to  go  on  shore  under  pain  of  dismissal,  and  was 
never  disobeyed.  Indeed,  his  habits  of  secrecy 
might  have  provoked  more  general  remark  had  they 
not  been  attributed  to  those  miserly  habits  which 
resented  the  friendship  of  men  because  of  the  de- 
mands it  might  make  upon  his  hospitality.  "Old 
Japhon  Fearney  be  gone  up  to  the  Hunted  Stag," 
they  would  say ;  "but  'tis  not  to  ask  any  one  to  take 
a  drink  with  'ee,  I'll  be  bound."  And  this  was  true 
— for  his  visits  were  for  another  purpose  altogether. 
Japhon  landed  in  Barnstaple  at  a  late  hour  upon 
this  particular  occasion,  and  went  openly  to  the 
offices  of  Jape,  Angus  &  Snarth.  To  the  excise- 
men he  was  unusually  communicative,  telling  of  the 
Englishman's  visit  to  Bell  Island  and  of  the  trick 
they  had  played  upon  him.  "But,"  he  added  saga- 
ciously, "others  might  keep  their  eyes  open  in  that 
direction,  for  what  does  such  a  man  with  such  a 
house?"  When  the  question  had  provoked  the 
proper  nods  of  doubt  and  affirmation,  and  the  old 
man  had  declared  that  he  came  ashore  "empty,"  he 
went  straight  on  from  the  river  quay  to  the  mer- 
chants' offices  in  Cross  Street.  Here,  although  it 

117 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  he  found  Mr.  Angus,  the 
only  surviving  partner  of  the  firm,  awaiting  him 
with  some  expectancy;  and  the  two  men  having  en- 
tered the  parlor  at  the  back  of  the  offices,  and  the 
servant  being  sent  to  bed,  they  entered  at  once  into 
an  animated  conversation  which  had  little  to  do 
with  merchandise  and  a  great  deal  with  prudence. 

Holly  Angus  was  a  slim,  red-haired  young  man 
of  thirty  years  of  age.  He  wore  his  hair  brushed 
high  upon  his  forehead,  and  was  so  exceedingly 
particular  about  his  dress  that  even  his  friends  re- 
garded it  as  no  fit  subject  for  a  jest.  To-night  he 
wore  a  smoking  suit  in  a  dark  shade  of  blue,  and 
had  added  the  adornment  of  a  crimson  rose  for  his 
buttonhole.  His  manner  was  offhand  and  a  little 
absent — the  manner  of  one  who  listened  to  his  com- 
panion but  thought  of  something  else. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  pushed  a  chair  for- 
ward ;  "so  you  came  after  all  ?" 

Japhon  sat  down  slowly  and  put  his  hat  on  the 
table. 

"I  thought  it  better  to  come,"  he  rejoined; 
"there's  a  lot  of  talk  over  yonder,  and  you  should 
hear  it." 

"Talk  of  John  Canning,  I  suppose.  There  nat- 
urally would  be.  Does  it  concern  us  in  any  way?" 

"Not  at  present ;  it  may  do  by  and  by.  I  sighted 
the  yacht  in  the  ofHng,  but  did  not  speak  her.  By 

118 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

all  talk,  these  are  the  days  to  let  her  go  by — but 
you'll  be  the  best  judge  of  that?" 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  watching  the  other 
curiously.  Holly  Angus  had  learned  his  business  in 
London,  and  Japhon  credited  him,  on  that  account, 
with  unnatural  shrewdness.  Indeed,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  he  would  not  have  done  business  with 
him  at  all.  And  to-night  he  relied  altogether  upon 
his  acumen. 

"What  talk  do  you  refer  to?"  asked  Angus 
slowly.  "Something  that  I  have  not  heard?" 

"You  must  have  heard  it.  They  know  in  London 
that  this  stuff  is  coming  through  some  western  port, 
and  western  ports  are  where  they're  seekin'  it.  We'd 
be  fools  not  to  lie  low  a  while.  If  you've  a  fancy 
for  the  inside  of  a  jail,  I  haven't.  My  tastes  are 
different." 

Holly  Angus  smiled  a  slow,  soft  smile  of  pity, 
not  unmingled  with  contempt. 

"You  are  repeating  what  I  said  to  you  ten  days 
ago,"  he  remarked ;  "well,  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you 
remembered  it.  Now  I'll  tell  you  something  more. 
The  report  was  true  enough — every  word  of  it. 
But  it's  ancient  history  by  this  time." 

"Then  they  have  taken  the  specials  off?" 

"They  are  watching  South  Wales  and  the  new 
harbor  works  at  Fishguard.  This  place  told  them 
nothing.  They  sent  a  written  account  of  every 

119 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

skipper  who  trades  in  and  out  and  gave  his  history. 
You  were  among  the  number — magistrate,  and  a 
minister  of  religion.  I  hope  you  like  that,  Fearney 
— a  minister  of  religion." 

He  laughed  heartily,  lolling  back  in  his  chair  to 
watch  a  smile  of  annoyance  steal  over  the  old  man's 
face,  as  a  flush  of  dirty  water  upon  an  old  brown 
stone.  When  they  had  enjoyed  their  own  thoughts 
for  some  minutes,  Angus  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  drew  a  tray  of  glasses  across  to  him. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "I  like  prudence,  but  prudence 
may  sit  in  the  cold  while  pluck  is  warming  itself 
at  the  fire.  Let's  drink  to  luck.  You  say  the  yacht 
is  in  the  offing — well,  speak  her  as  you  go  home. 
I'll  answer  for  your  safety.  You  know  how  many 
times  I've  answered  for  it — did  I  ever  play  you 
false?" 

"You  never  did,"  cried  Japhon  emphatically. 

"Then  you  may  believe  me  to-night.  Speak  the 
yacht,  and  take  the  parcel.  You  can  land  it  on 
Tuesday,  when  you  bring  in  the  hay  for  Fether- 
more.  Let  it  be  on  the  fifteenth  bundle  to  come 
ashore.  What's  to  forbid  you? — unless  you've 
taken  the  fancy  to  turn  your  back  on  good  money? 
But  I'll  answer  that  you  haven't,  and  the  stuff  will 
come  ashore.  It  wouldn't  be  Japhon  Fearney  to 
send  it  back  to  Holland." 


120 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

The  old  man  liked  the  compliment,  and  drained 
a  glass  to  it. 

"You'll  have  your  way,  as  you  always  do,"  he 
said;  "well,  sink  or  swim,  I'll  run  it  this  time. 
What's  to  come  afterward  will  be  as  time  makes 
wise.  If  this  Englishman  turns  curious,  we'll  knock 
off  a  while.  He's  a  big,  masterful  sort  of  man,  and 
not  the  one  to  be  trifled  with.  I'll  have  to  watch 
him  closely." 

"For  what?  What  does  he  know  about  us? 
Really,  Fearney,  you  annoy  me  sometimes.  What- 
ever has  a  convict  to  do  with  Japhon  Fearney  and 
the  house  of  Jape,  Angus  &  Snarth  ?" 

"A  convict!     You're  joking?" 

"I  was  never  farther  from  a  joke  in  my  life.  The 
man  has  just  served  seven  years'  penal  servitude  for 
defrauding  the  shareholders  of  a  public  company. 
You  ought  to  know  it.  I  am  surprised  at  you." 

Japhon  licked  his  lips  for  quite  a  long  time.  This 
was  his  habit  when  he  heard  something  very  much 
to  his  liking — as  though  he  were  turning  the  excla- 
mation of  pleasure  over  and  over  upon  his  tongue 
and  afraid  to  part  with  it.  Presently,  however,  he 
began  to  laugh,  and  continued  to  do  so  in  little  out- 
bursts, which  he  tried  vainly  to  control. 

"Repeat  that  again!"  he  exclaimed  presently;  "a 
convict,  the  man  that's  taken  the  Castle!  You 
tell  me  he's  a  convict !" 

121 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Certainly  I  do.  I'll  send  you  the  papers. 
There's  no  doubt  about  it." 

"Who  did  seven  years'  penal  servitude?" 

"That  was  his  sentence.  They  speak  of  him  as  an 
exemplary  prisoner." 

"He  would  be!  And  that  was  the  man  who  had 
the  impudence  to  come  hectoring  me  this  very 
mornin'.  Well,  Mr.  Angus,  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  him  next  time,  be  sure  of  it.  I  shall 
find  my  tongue." 

"But  I  wouldn't  let  it  run  away  with  me,  Fear- 
ney.  Don't  arouse  curiosity." 

"Oh,  trust  me,  trust  me,  I'll  keep  him  in  his  place. 
A  convict!  You  do  amaze  me." 

He  repeated  it  with  the  monotonous  reiteration 
of  a  man  who  has  won  a  great  personal  triumph; 
and  when  he  left  Holly  Angus  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else.  The  man  a 
convict.  This  masterful,  overbearing  lord  of  Bell 
Island  just  no  better  than  a  thief  or  a  housebreaker. 
It  amazed  him.  And  he  had  been  thinking  that 
Jesse  might  marry  the  fellow  and  rule  up  at  the 
great  house.  Ay,  lucky  he  learned  the  news  in  time. 
His  triumph  must  be  inevitable.  Nothing  could  for- 
bid it. 

And  so  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  river,  and 
the  tide  serving  and  the  men  being  awakened,  he 
put  out  to  sea  again  and  presently  discerned  the 

122 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

flashing  light  of  Bell  Island  and  the  stars  which 
marked  the  fishermen's  cottages,  a  little  to  the  north- 
ward. There  the  chapel  stood — therein  he  had 
preached  last  Sunday  from  the  text  "Judge  not 
that  ye  be  not  judged."  Japhon  Fearney  remem- 
bered that  as  he  watched  the  lights. 

"Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged."  Was  it  the 
word  of  God  or  man's  desire  which  chose  such  a 
text  for  him?  He  was  afraid  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion. He  preferred  to  think  of  other  things. 


123 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   COWARD  MAKES  AN   EFFORT 

IRWIN  BENSON  lay  in  the  thicket  until  it  was  full 
dark,  and  then  he  crept  down  to  the  shore.  It  was 
no  uncommon  thing  for  him  to  put  to  sea  in  one  of 
his  father's  boats,  but  he  rarely  ventured  at  night, 
or  when  there  was  more  than  a  ripple  on  the  water. 
This  night,  however,  a  spirit  foreign  to  his  nature 
helped  him.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  blackness  of 
the  sky  or  the  promise  of  tempest,  but  choosing  an 
ancient  boat  with  a  single  lug  sail,  he  rowed  himself 
out  of  the  harbor  and  set  a  course  as  though  he  also 
were  bound  for  England. 

Here  was  an  odd  character,  and  one  difficult  to 
comprehend.  Few  understood  the  boy  or  took  heed 
of  his  life.  All  the  favors  of  his  father's  poor 
house  had  been  reserved  for  the  disappointing 
Frank.  Let  a  stranger  speak  of  the  family,  and 
Frank  would  be  thrown  at  him;  the  people  said — 
Frank  who  had  been  to  school  in  Devon,  Frank  who 
had  spent  a  year  in  London,  Frank  who  wrote 
pieces  in  the  papers.  But  of  Irwin,  not  a  word. 

He  had  resented  the  indifference,  and  shaped  his 
124 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

character  upon  it.  When  he  sinned,  he  told  him- 
self that  he  could  not  help  it.  A  further  argument 
suggested  that  sin  was  a  subtle  vengeance  upon  his 
enemies.  He  had  been  starved  and  beaten  and  neg- 
lected at  home?  What  right  had  they  to  ask  good 
conduct  of  him  ?  And  yet,  oddly  enough,  there  was 
mixed  up  with  all  this  a  strange  mysticism  which 
spoke  ecstatically  of  heavenly  things,  and  sensually 
of  those  pertaining  to  the  earth.  He  adored  women, 
but  had  no  conscience  toward  them.  The  Sabbath 
found  him  bitterly  repenting  his  deeds,  but  without 
the  moral  strength  to  promise  amendment. 

This  was  the  lad  who  had  put  to  sea  after  Japhon 
Fearney  had  beaten  him,  and  dared  the  darkness 
because  of  his  evil  thoughts.  A  very  cunning  na- 
ture, fed  by  many  suspicions,  led  him  to  espionage 
and  surmise,  and  now  at  last  to  this  voyage  upon 
an  unknown  course.  Whither  was  he  going,  and 
why?  Perchance  he  did  not  know  himself,  and  be- 
lieving no  more  than  that  the  sea  had  her  secrets, 
he  set  his  course  toward  England  and  waited  for 
Fearney's  return. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  nothing  to  make  him  afraid 
— nothing,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  beginning  of  it. 
The  clouded  heaven  gave  a  black  sea  below,  but 
showed  very  clearly  the  lights  of  the  passing  ships 
and  those  on  the  shore.  A  monitive  silence  pre- 
vailed, and  even  the  wavelets  rippled  softly  as 

125 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

though  upon  an  oily  bed.  Far  out  in  the  Channel, 
Irwin  distinguished  the  brilliant  lights  of  some  big 
ship  bound  for  Avonmouth,  and  again  to  the  scuth, 
the  masthead  light  of  the  cruiser  which  had  been 
anchored  off  Bell  Island  for  some  days.  As  to  the 
fishing  fleet,  that  had  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  Longships  light,  and  would  be  no  more  heard 
of  until  morning.  Irwin  cared  nothing  about  dis- 
covery, and  yet  he  was  glad  to  be  alone.  He  could 
almost  imagine  that  he  escaped  from  the  living 
world,  and  was  drifting  to  some  new  land  where  a 
miracle  would  open  his  eyes  to  the  glories  of  an  un- 
known sphere. 

He  was  not  a  clever  sailor,  but  he  knew  enough 
of  the  currents  about  Bell  Island  to  set  a  course 
straight  out  to  sea,  and  to  keep  his  little  boat  far 
from  the  dangerous  reefs  which  run  to  the  south- 
ward. A  sluggish  breeze,  beginning  to  blow  about 
eleven  o'clock,  found  him  some  three  miles  from  the 
harbor  and  seven  from  the  coast  of  Devon.  He 
could  discern  the  lights  upon  the  mainland  quite 
plainly,  but  no  lanterns  of  ships  anywhere  about 
him.  Thus  it  befell  that  something  like  terror  over- 
took him,  when  a  black,  silent  shape  loomed  sud- 
denly out  of  the  darkness  and  passed  so  close  to 
him  that  his  outstretched  hand  could  have  touched 
it.  A  ship,  he  said — yes,  steamship— but  without 
lanterns,  steaming  so  slowly  that  she  almost  drifted. 

126 


THH   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Had  she  come  three  yards  more  to  port,  that  would 
have  been  an  end  of  Irwin  Benson.  He  shivered  at 
his  narrow  escape,  and  lay  for  some  time  peering 
into  the  darkness  as  though  a  second  monster  might 
follow  and  destroy  him. 

It  is  not  strange,  perhaps,  that  this  sudden  appari- 
tion was  not  accompanied  by  any  definite  ideas,  or 
that  he  failed  to  associate  it  with  Japhon's  voyage. 
A  vague  knowledge  of  Admiralty  and  the  fact  that 
manoeuvres  were  taking  place  in  the  Channel  led 
him  to  say  that  this  would  be  a  "destroyer,"  and 
that  she  carried  no  lights  because  of  the  mimic  war- 
fare. Her  return,  suddenly,  and  without  any  warn- 
ing, confirmed  that  impression.  She  passed  at  a 
cable's  length  this  time,  and  was  headed  southward. 
Irwin  had  just  determined  that  she  must  be  a  de- 
stroyer, when  she  showed  a  single  green  light,  not 
on  her  starboard,  but  on  her  port  quarter;  and  lift- 
ing it  half  way  to  the  masthead,  dropped  it  as 
quickly.  Irwin  knew  much  which  it  is  necessary  for 
sailors  to  know,  but  of  the  Navy  or  its  customs  he 
knew  nothing.  The  "destroyer"  must  be  making  a 
signal — but  to  whom?  When  he  answered  the 
question,  it  was  to  tell  himself  that  another  ship  had 
hoisted  a  green  lantern  in  reply,  and  that  she  was 
standing  out  from  the  mainland  and  sailed,  as  it 
would  appear,  right  in  the  "destroyer's"  path. 

All  this  fascinated  the  lad,  and  led  him  to  forget 
127 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

both  Japhon  Fearney  and  his  own  suspicions.  For 
a  long  while  he  lay,  his  boat  swinging  lazily  to  the 
gentle  seas,  and  the  hauled  lug  sail  flapping  softly 
against  the  little  mast.  Perchance  he  would  have 
returned  eventually  to  the  islands  as  wise  as  he  left 
it  but  for  a  sudden  lift  of  the  clouds,  which  declared 
the  scene  plainly  enough.  Yes,  there  the  strange 
steamer  was,  and  there  now,  fifty  yards  from  her, 
lay  the  boat  which  had  put  out  from  Barnstaple 
Bay.  But  that  was  Japhon  Fearney's  boat.  Irwin 
would  have  recognized  it  anywhere.  Nor  was  that 
all,  for  he  himself  was  detected  as  quickly,  and  with 
a  low  whistle  from  one  boat  to  the  other,  the  strange 
steamer  instantly  showed  all  her  proper  lights,  while 
Prisoner — Twenty-Seven 

Fearney  headed  straight  for  Bell  Island  and  the 
harbor. 

Now,  it  has  been  said  that  Irwin  Benson  was  a 
lad  of  much  natural  shrewdness,  and  yet  it  must  be 
granted  that  he  could  make  nothing  of  this  circum- 
stance. He  had  heard,  no  matter  where,  wild 
stories  of  old  Japhon's  dealings  with  strange  ships 
at  sea,  and  had  determined  to  probe  them  for  him- 
self— yet  why  the  old  man  should  so  act,  or  what 
such  conduct  meant,  he  had  not  the  vaguest  idea. 
Certainly  this  would  be  no  excise  affair;  trust 
Japhon  not  to  be  risking  his  position  and  his  money 
in  a  paltry  attempt  to  smuggle  a  keg  or  two  of 

128 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

brandy  or  a  few  cigars  into  England.  Then  why 
did  he  speak  the  ships  at  all,  and  why  did  this  par- 
ticular ship  carry  no  lanterns?  Full  of  wonder,  the 
lad  headed  his  lugger  for  the  shore.  Then  fear — 
fear  unlike  any  he  had  ever  known — overtook  him 
when  he  perceived  that  Japhon's  boat  was  coming 
after  him,  and  that  it  must  overhaul  him  before  he 
could  make  the  harbor. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been!  And  what  a  hazard- 
ous thing  to  do ! — for  surely  this  would  be  no  affair 
of  a  common  rebuke  or  even  of  a  thrashing.  He 
dreaded  Fearney  now  with  a  dread  unspeakable. 
His  own  helpless  situation,  the  lonely  sea,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  all  contributed  to  his  alarms. 
Would  not  this  man  kill  him?  Strange  tales  were 
told  upon  Bell  Island  of  Japhon's  anger,  of  what  it 
had  been  and  of  what  it  had  done.  Irwin  remem- 
bered how  the  old  man's  eyes  had  blazed  at  the  mere 
question— and  now  he  knew,  knew  that  he  had  been 
followed,  perhaps  imagined  that  he  had  been  dis- 
covered. Crouching  in  the  boat,  Irwin  turned  sick 
with  terror.  Yes,  they  would  kill  him  because  of 
what  he  knew.  And  the  irony  was  that  he  knew 
nothing. 

There  had  been  some  lifting  of  the  clouds  when 
he  discovered  the  ships,  and  this  endured  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps.  A  great  azure  lake  in 
a  heaven  of  black  mountains  sent  down  a  pale  glow 

129 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

upon  the  sea,  and  revealed  all  things  in  contrasts  of 
silver  and  of  sepia.  But  for  the  wind,  which  was 
but  a  breath  across  the  waste,  Irwin  Benson  would 
have  come  to  judgment  quickly  enough;  but  the 
lugger  could  hold  the  ketch  in  such  a  sea,  and  drift 
with  her  to  no  disadvantage.  Thus  for  twenty  min- 
utes the  positions  were  unchanged.  Thus  the  race 
became  but  a  whisper  of  prayer — upon  the  lad's 
part  that  he  might  make  the  haven ;  upon  the  man's 
that  he  might  forestall  the  lugger.  Never,  in  all 
truth,  had  Irwin  known  what  the  fear  of  death 
could  be  until  this  black  night  overtook  him.  For 
it  was  not  discovery  but  the  pain  which  must  attend 
discovery,  not  the  dread  of  the  aftermath  but  of  the 
present,  of  the  cold,  dark  water,  of  the  rough  hands 
which  would  hold  him  down,  of  the  seas  closing 
above  his  head  and  the  unknown  terrors  beneath. 
And  all  this  vainly,  mere  surmise;  the  vision  of  an 
hysterical  youth  who  had  not  the  courage  of  his 
deeds. 

He  prayed  for  safety  and  thanked  God  aloud 
when  the  clouds  banked  up  in  the  heavens  and  night 
fell  back  again.  Now  for  a  long  while  it  was  a 
battle  of  the  ears,  the  lad  listening  for  any  message 
from  the  waves,  the  man  for  the  boat's  voice  lead- 
ing him.  For  an  hour,  a  fresher  breeze  helping 
them,  the  two  sailed  round  and  about  each  other. 
But  the  lugger  was  the  first  to  harbor ;  and,  scram- 

130 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

bling  ashore,  Irwin  ran  like  a  deer  to  his  father's 
house. 

Day  was  breaking  in  the  sky  then  and  the  island 
asleep.  He  crept  unto  his  bed  and  laughed,  as  much 
from  the  reaction  of  terror  as  at  his  own  victory. 

Let  Japhon  Fearney  charge  him  to-morrow. 

Ay,  but  would  he  dare  ?    Would  he  dare  ? 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XV 

THE  FAIR  AT  THE  CASTLE 

JOHN  CANNING  looked  down  from  the  terrace  of 
the  Castle  to  the  garden  scene  below;  but  it  would 
be  untrue  to  say  that  he  found  pleasure  in  it.  Was 
it  for  this  that  he  had  bought  the  place  and  sought 
its  sanctuary — to  hire  fiddlers  for  the  feet  of  hobble- 
dehoys, to  set  up  his  tents  that  the  vulgar  might  eat 
and  drink  therein?  He  knew  that  it  was  not,  but 
submitted  patiently,  nevertheless,  to  the  ordeal. 
After  all,  he  owed  something  to  so  good  a  friend  as 
Ernest  Hobby,  and  the  fair  at  the  Castle  had  been 
Hobby's  idea  from  the  beginning. 

"Get  in  touch  with  the  people,"  Hobby  had  said ; 
"you  complain  that  they  are  uncivil,  that  they  re- 
ceive you  coldly.  Well,  you  don't  know  them  yet. 
Of  course  they  are  jealous  of  their  supposed  rights 
and  will  oppose  you.  Obstinacy  is  the  peasant's 
compensation  for  wit  and  learning.  They  don't 
like  you  for  many  reasons,  but  chiefly  because  you 
are  a  stranger.  Get  to  know  them,  Canning.  Make 
yourself  master  of  their  good  will,  and  then  you 
will  be  the  'laird'  indeed." 

Canning  listened  a  little  contemptuously.  To  be 
132 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

sure,  he  had  been  but  two  months  on  Bell  Island — 
this  was  the  month  of  September — and  the  place 
had  already  disappointed  him.  What  a  lot  of  pig- 
headed, obstinate  fools  the  people  were — prating  of 
their  rights  perpetually,  or  quoting  the  charter  until 
he  was  weary  of  the  very  word !  All  attempts  to  im- 
prove their  condition  had  failed  dismally  hitherto. 
They  wanted  nothing  better  than  it  had  been.  When 
he  spoke  of  building  a  fine  church  whose  spire 
should  be  seen  from  the  mainland,  they  retorted 
with  a  talk  of  covenants  and  justification  by  grace 
which  exasperated  him.  The  reading-room  he  had 
wished  to  open,  the  club  he  would  have  founded,  did 
no  more  than  provoke  their  suspicion.  Not  a  man 
but  young  Frank  Benson  entered  its  doors,  and  he 
but  to  read  the  daily  papers  and  to  idle  away  the 
time.  Finally  Had  come  the  proposal  for  a  new 
harbor,  and  an  immediate  resort  to  the  bitterest 
weapons  of  outspoken  hostility.  They  would  have 
no  harbor  to  bring  the  coasting  barks  to  Bell  Is- 
land and  ruin  them.  Such  a  suggestion  savored  of 
robbery. 

So  here  was  the  beginning  of  a  pretty  mischief, 
and  here  a  simple  fellow's  solution  of  it.  Hobby 
was  all  for  conciliation — the  festina  lente,  the  com- 
promise. Canning,  in  his  impulsive  way,  had  not 
hastened  slowly  enough,  he  said.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  go  step  by  step.  To  which  Canning  an- 

133 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

svvered  with  the  question,  Why  go  at  all  ?  Why  re- 
member the  existence  of  such  cattle  ? 

"I  came  to  this  place  to  find  solitude,"  he  said; 
"I  have  found  instead  a  colony  of  very  detestable 
people,  overmuch  given  to  drink  and  other  vices  and 
imbued  with  few  virtues.  If  I  choose,  I  can  make 
their  lives  miserable " 

"We  can  all  do  that,  Canning,  where  the  poor  are 
concerned.  But  it  isn't  quite  a  noble  performance, 
is  it?  Don't  blame  them  for  not  being  what  they 
can  never  be.  You  wouldn't  call  a  dog  names  for 
not  being  an  ox." 

"Then  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  would  you  do, 
Hobby?" 

"Feed  them,  my  dear  boy.  Give  them  meat  and 
drink.  Show  them  something  a  bit  brighter  than 
anything  they  find  in  their  daily  lives.  That's  what 
I  would  do." 

"Oh,  a  fancy  fair  and  fete-bribery  and  corrup- 
tion in  a  gross  form.  I  believe  you  wish  to  dance 
with  the  village  girls  yourself.  Now,  isn't  it  that, 
Hobby?" 

Hobby  blushed  very  much,  but  declared  that  it 
wasn't.  His  simple  arguments  won  the  day  in  the 
end,  and  Canning  consented  to  see  those  obstinate 
folk  and  to  hear  them  for  themselves. 

"Do  what  you  like,"  he  had  said;  "I'll  pay  the 
bill  cheerfully.  If  it  must  be  beef  and  beer,  for 

134 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Heaven's  sake  let  them  have  plenty  of  it.  I'm  sick 
of  them,  Hobby " 

"But  very  much  in  love  with  Bell  Island  all  the 
same.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  came  here,  Canning,  for 
you'd  never  have  been  happy  over  yonder.  And 
when  a  man  does  make  a  home  and  learns  to  love  it, 
he's  about  as  near  to  happiness  as  any  of  us  ever 
will  be  in  this  mortal  life." 

Canning  had  no  argument  with  which  to  meet 
this,  nor  did  he  try  to  do  so.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  learned  already  to  love  Bell  Island ;  true  that  he 
had  found  upon  its  heights  the  peace  he  had  sought 
vainly  through  the  years.  Here  no  man  knew  his 
story,  or,  knowing  it,  might  profit  by  it.  Here  was 
a  haven  to  which  he  might  retire  while  preparing 
the  armies  of  his  brain  for  the  new  assault  upon  the 
citadels  of  wealth.  For,  be  sure,  such  a  man  as 
John  Canning  had  no  intention  of  retiring  definitely 
from  the  world  in  which  he  had  won  so  many  tri- 
umphs and  suffered  so  much  bitterness.  He  would 
go  forth  to  conquer — when  the  day  came. 

Meanwhile  there  was,  upon  this  sunny  day  of 
September,  the  fair  in  the  gardens  of  his  house,  and 
the  realization  of  that  scheme  by  which  his  simple- 
minded  friend  set  so  much  store.  Already  four 
fiddlers  had  arrived  from  Bideford,  and  according 
to  the  customs  of  fiddlers  in  those  parts,  had  taken 
off  their  coats  and  hung  them  up  in  the  boughs  of 

135 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  trees.  The  gardens  themselves  looked  very 
beautiful,  and  had  gained  something  by  the  cool 
white  tents,  pegged  down  upon  the  sunburned 
lawns.  As  for  the  flowers,  and  especially  the  great 
dahlias  upon  which  Canning  prided  himself,  they 
made  a  very  picture  for  the  eye,  marred  only  by  the 
presence  of  stote  caterers  from  Bideford,  who  rolled 
monstrous  barrels  of  beer  to  the  refreshment  tents, 
and  handled  rounds  of  beef  which  should  have  fed 
an  army. 

It  was  to  be  an  island  fete  and  yet  more  than  that, 
for  friends  from  the  mainland  were  to  be  invited, 
and  every  lad  to  bring  his  lass.  These  came  strag- 
gling up  to  the  Castle  about  four  of  the  afternoon, 
the  girls  aglow  with  blushes  and  colored  ribbons, 
the  sheepish  youths  following  after  with  lagging, 
but  not  unwilling,  steps.  As  for  the  old  people, 
they  came  a-tiptoe  as  though  they  would  declare 
their  readiness  for  the  dance  to  all  and  sundry — 
and,  as  Abe  Benson  announced,  "jine  in  a  jig  so 
long  as  it  were  de-chorus."  This  worthy  wore  a 
seaman's  coat,  with  smart  brass  buttons  and  anchors 
stamped  upon  them.  But  his  son  Frank  came  in  a 
pepper  and  salt  suit  from  Barnstaple,  and  moved 
apart  as  though  really  a  little  ashamed  of  his  com- 
pany. 

"We  are  a  very  primitive  people,"  he  explained  to 
Canning  loftily;  "few  of  us  have  had  any  educa- 

136 


tional  advantages.  I  am  greatly  amused  some- 
times— but  it  is  also  a  little  pathetic." 

"What  is  pathetic?"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"Oh,  I  mean  their  ignorance.  Some  of  them 
hardly  know  whether  the  world  is  round  or  flat." 

"Especially  on  Saturday  nights,  I  suppose.  Well, 
my  boy,  you  should  be  their  schoolmaster.  Why 
don't  you  take  pity  on  them?" 

"Oh,  I  am  going  to  the  law,  when  I  have  finished 
my  reading.  I'm  not  in  the  teaching  line." 

He  was  much  affronted,  and  strolled  away  to 
wait  for  Jesse.  The  others  in  the  meantime  ad- 
vanced as  well-drilled  soldiers  to  the  refreshment 
tent,  and  immediately  made  themselves  comfortable 
therein. 

"I  be  such  a  man  for  a  corner  seat  that  I  fall  into 
it  to  the  manner  born,"  old  Abe  said,  as  he  took  his 
second  mug  of  beer;  "but  this  I  will  say,  friends, 
we  are  guests  in  this  house  and  must  be  upon  the 
proprieties.  Now  let  me  see  any  man  forgetting 
what's  due  to  Bell  Island,  and  I'll  d — n  well  lay  my 
stick  on  his  back." 

Somebody  said  "Ay,  ay,"  to  that;  but  an  over- 
bold fellow  in  the  corner  muttered  something  about 
Abe  Benson  being  as  ready  as  any  other  man  to 
take  a  wench  on  his  knee,  and  this  raised  an  ironical 
controversy  which  nothing  but  John  Canning's  en- 
try among  them  could  terminate. 

137 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

The  master  of  Bell  Island  certainly  looked  very 
well  that  day  in  his  gray  frock  suit  and  white  top- 
hat,  and  he  moved  with  that  firm  step  and  gracious 
manner  which  the  years  had  made  habitual  to  him. 
To  the  people  his  greeting  was  both  affable  and 
cheering.  He  was  very  glad  to  see  them  in  his 
house,  hoped  that  they  would  make  themselves  at 
home  and  do  just  as  they  liked.  Observing  Irwin 
Benson  in  a  corner,  and  remembering  that  the  lad 
had  been  called  a  scamp,  he  beckoned  him  to  his 
side  and  asked  him  why  he  was  not  dancing.  To 
which  the  youth  answered  sheepishly,  and  with 
some  hypocrisy,  that  Nance  Weede  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived, and  that  it  would  not  be  seemly  for  him  to 
be  dancing  with  any  other.  When  Canning  asked 
the  further  question,  if  the  ladies  in  those  parts  imi- 
tated their  sisters  on  the  mainland  and  generally 
kept  the  gentlemen  waiting,  the  response  was  both 
quick  and  opportune. 

"They  tell  me  they're  just  the  same  all  the  world 
over,  sir.  I  wish  I  knew,  but  I've  never  been  fur- 
ther than  Barnstaple,  and  that's  a  poor  place  to 
judge  them,  as  Mr.  Fearney  will  tell  you.  He's 
often  in  Barnstaple,  generally  going  over  by  night 
when  nobody's  about.  You  should  ask  him  about  it, 
sir ;  though  his  comings  and  goings  are  not  what  he 
most  likes  to  talk  about." 

Canning  looked  at  the  lad  sharply. 

138 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"He  goes  by  night — ah,  his  produce  would  be 
shipped  to  Barnstaple.  Or  is  it  to  Bideford?  I 
am  still  a  stranger  in  this  part  of  the  world." 

"He  sends  everything  to  Barnstaple,  sir,  in  the 
two  old  smacks  he  bought  of  Mother  Hunning 
after  her  husband  died.  You  can  see  them  crossing 
almost  any  week,  but  Mr.  Kearney  himself,  he  goes 
by  night  in  the  ketch  he  calls  the  Pharos.  I  saw 
him  starting  one  night,  and  he  was  fair  angry.  But 
for  my  father  I'd  have  had  him  in  the  courts  for 
what  he  did  to  me." 

"Mr.  Fearney  is  evidently  one  who  believes  in 
minding  his  own  business.  It  is  a  good  lesson.  Do 
not  pry  into  other  people's  affairs,  my  lad.  Your 
own  should  occupy  all  your  time.  Now  go  and  look 
for  the  young  lady.  What  is  her  name,  did  you 
say?" 

"Nance  Weede,  sir;  she's  over  yonder  with  old 
Mother  Hunning  of  whom  I  was  speaking.  Young 
Hunning  you  may  have  heard  of.  He's  been  in 
prison  more  than  once — there  won't  be  many  to 
dance  with  him  to-day." 

Canning  took  a  step  backward,  just  as  a  man  may 
step  away  from  a  wasp  which  would  sting.  A  flush 
of  color  suffused  his  sun-browned  face.  For  an 
instant  he  could  have  believed  that  this  fawning  lad 
had  been  chosen  as  the  mouthpiece  of  an  insult. 


139 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  boy  ?  Why  should  they 
not  dance  with  him?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  Father  says  it's  human  na- 
ture. He's  the  only  one  on  Bell  Island  as  ever  came 
to  a  misfortune,  and  the  folks  don't  like  it.  We're 
a  proud  people,  sir,  though  we're  poor." 

Here  was  the  common  cant  of  the  quay  and  the 
meeting  house,  and  Irwin  Benson  knew  it  to  be 
such.  But  he  wished  to  try  its  effect  on  the 
stranger,  believing  that  platitudes  which  were  good 
enough  for  Japhon  Fearney  were  good  enough  for 
him.  Canning,  however,  turned  sharply  on  his  heel 
and  went  straight  over  to  Mother  Running  and  her 
son. 

And  this  was  the  moment  when  Jesse  entered  the 
grounds,  and,  standing  shyly  by  her  father's  side, 
looked  about  her  quickly  as  though  seeking  some 
one  and  but  ill  content  until  she  had  found  him. 


140 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XVI 

JESSE  REVISITS  THE  LONG  GALLERY 

FRANK  BENSON  was  the  first  to  espy  her  and 
went  over  to  her  side  immediately,  to  utter  a  com- 
monplace about  his  own  pleasure  and  to  express 
contempt  for  that  of  other  people.  He  wondered  a 
little  at  the  magnificence  of  old  Japhon's  appear- 
ance, but  expressed  no  surprise.  Never  had  the  old 
man  worn  so  majestic  an  air.  A  frock  coat  from 
the  best  tailor  in  Barnstaple,  a  glossy  silk  hat  of 
enormous  dimensions,  yellow  gloves  held  awk- 
wardly in  the  hand,  a  collar  which  gave  him  phys- 
ical pain,  were  the  insignia  of  an  office  he  felt  com- 
pelled to  glorify  upon  such  an  occasion.  Had  you 
read  his  thoughts  you  would  have  found  them  far 
from  the  scene  and  its  novelties,  for  he  was  thinking 
of  the  little  chapel  in  the  hollow,  and  of  a  sermon 
he  once  had  preached  there  from  the  text  "Judge 
not  that  ye  be  not  judged." 

To  be  sure  there  was  a  further  reflection,  and  that 
a  prudent  one.  Japhon  Fearney  knew  enough  of 
the  law  of  slander  to  weigh  his  words  at  all  times. 
Had  he  been  sure  of  Holly  Angus'  facts  he  would 
have  gone  more  confidently,  but  even  that  worthy 

141 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

was  not  sure  of  them.  Certainly  a  man  named  John 
Canning  had  been  in  prison  for  fraud — but  was  this 
the  man?  Japhon  looked  up  at  the  Castle,  down  at 
the  brilliant  gardens,  and  the  doubt  waxed  stronger. 
Was  this  the  man?  Ay,  it  would  never  do  to  make 
a  mistake  about  the  matter.  The  law  would  cor- 
rect that,  and  a  castigation  there  meant  bankruptcy, 
or  worse,  the  lawyers. 

In  which  mood  of  doubt,  his  easy  charity  had 
consented  to  come  to  the  fair.  Vanity  also  had  been 
tickled  by  the  invitation.  Let  the  two  of  them,  the 
master  of  the  Castle  and  the  King's  justice,  stand 
side  by  side  before  the  people  as  their  proper  lords 
and  rulers.  Japhon  perceived  that  Cannihg  might 
want  all  the  rock  for  himself.  He  was  determined 
to  get  a  foothold;  and  there  he  stood  upon  the 
sweeping  lawn,  a  figure  ironical  of  a  petty  kingdom, 
a  trussed  effigy  of  an  unstable  power. 

"I  don't  see  Mr.  Canning;  where  is  he,  Jesse? 
He  should  be  here  to  meet  us  rightly — 'tis  no  proper 
behavior  this,  and  me  a  magistrate." 

"Mr.  Canning  is  over  there,  father,  talking  to 
young  Hunning." 

"Ay,  I  should  have  looked  for  him  in  that  quar- 
ter. Just  you  step  down  and  tell  him  we're  here, 
Frank.  I'll  cool  my  heels  on  no  man's  doorstep." 

Frank  exchanged  a  glance  with  Jesse  as  who 
should  say  "This  is  no  proper  thing  to  do,"  but  he 

142 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

obeyed  the  old  man  nevertheless,  and  presently  John 
Canning  himself  came  briskly  across  the  lawn  and 
greeted  these  distinguished  visitors.  With  the  old 
man  he  was  particularly  affable;  asked  after  his 
harvest,  his  boats,  the  doings  in  the  hamlet,  the  gen- 
eral state  of  the  island  and  the  people.  Nor  did  he 
forget  to  throw  in  an  occasional  compliment  to 
Jesse,  whose  quick  eyes  read  up  his  shy  glances  and 
made  no  mistake  concerning  them. 

She  was  smartly  dressed  to-day,  perhaps  showily 
for  such  a  place,  but  not  to  the  point  of  vulgarity. 
Very  girlish,  slim,  her  skin  amazingly  fair,  her  hair 
a  wealth  of  black  tresses  caught  up  in  a  bright  blue 
ribbon,  her  dress  of  the  finest  muslin,  a  wonderful 
transparency  which  it  would  seem  the  lightest 
breath  might  dissolve,  her  stockings  of  silk,  her 
shoes  buckled  and  over-fine,  mittens  upon  her  arms, 
a  plain  gold  brooch  at  her  throat.  She  was  neither 
of  the  bourgeoisie  nor  the  peasant — but  just  herself, 
Jesse  of  the  Pharos  decked  out  for  the  fete;  a 
schoolgirl  grown  a  little  older;  a  picture  that  Bel- 
lini should  have  caught  upon  the  Guidecca  and 
passed  on  to  the  immortality  of  galleries.  Nor 
would  she  have  been  a  woman  if  she  had  not 
guessed  at  least  something  of  the  truth.  John  Can- 
ning should  notice  her  to-day,  she  had  said ;  she  cer- 
tainly was  not  disappointed. 

He  wondered  at  himself  for  the  sidelong  glances 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

he  could  not  avert,  asked  himself  why  he  carried  so 
vague  a  memory  of  a  famous  interview,  told  himself 
that  she  was  merely  a  farmer's  daughter — and  for 
all  that  remained  close  at  her  side.  Frank  Benson, 
upon  his  part,  was  not  to  be  ignored,  nor  would  the 
old  man  be  left  behind;  so  here  was  a  little  pro- 
cession going  from  tent  to  tent  among  the  people, 
and  always  bringing  hands  to  honest  heads  or 
women  to  the  curtsy.  As  for  old  Japhon,  he  found 
himself  in  his  glory,  and  he  was  very  glad  that  he 
had  listened  to  Holly  Angus  with  suspicion. 

After  all  it  was  something  to  stand  cheek  by  jowl 
with  the  great  man  of  the  island;  something  to  be 
able  to  say,  "My  friend  Canning  up  at  the  big 
house."  He  hoped  very  much  that  the  news  was 
not  true,  and  found  himself  unwilling  to  give  it 
serious  credence.  It  may  even  be  that  he  resolved 
to  make  no  use  of  it  should  it  be  true,  but  to  serve 
his  own  interests  by  the  judicious  cultivation  of  one 
who  evidently  possessed  a  large  fortune,  and  was 
not  unwilling  to  disburse  some  of  it  upon  Bell  Is- 
land. In  which  spirit  he  followed  his  leader  from 
tent  to  tent,  and  being  required  by  him  to  do  so, 
gave  the  signal  for  the  dancing,  which  many  of  the 
young  people  had  been  long  awaiting. 

And  what  a  tripping  on  the  light  fantastic  fol- 
lowed! How  shy  the  lads  were;  how  ready  the 
girls!  There  were  even  silly  old  men  to  push  their 

144 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

way  to  the  green  with  exclamations  upon  their 
aforetime  cleverness ;  tousled  old  women  to  stumble 
a  sorry  gait  and  end  panting  in  unwilling  arms; 
but  everywhere  a  great  stamping  and  the  utterance 
of  shrill  cries  and  a  real  response  to  the  crazy  music. 
As  for  the  fiddlers,  they  had  come  from  Bideford 
with  a  big  reputation  for  muscle  and  powers  of  en- 
durance, and  were  not  to  lose  it  upon  Bell  Island. 
True,  one  of  them,  regardless  of  his  part,  would 
halt  from  time  to  time  to  take  a  great  draught  out 
of  a  monstrous  pot,  and  this  was  disconcerting — 
but  little  the  dancers  recked  of  that  or  cared  either 
for  time  or  tune  if  they  could  but  shuffle  a  measure 
and  catch  a  slim  waist  in  its  performance.  As  for 
old  Abe  Benson,  he  boasted  afterward  that  he  had 
cuddled  every  girl  in  the  company.  "And  what  else 
were  they  dancin'  for?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

Canning  was  much  amused  at  all  this,  and  far 
from  displeased  by  its  opportunities.  He  found 
himself  alone  with  Jesse  by  and  by,  and  insensibly 
drew  her  away  from  the  stadium.  If  she  had  the 
will  to  dance  she  concealed  it  artfully,  an  itching 
foot  battling  with  a  beating  heart  and  the  per- 
suasions of  her  vanity.  Upon  the  man's  part  there 
was  just  the  echo  of  boyish  triumphs,  the  pleasure 
which  would  lead  her  from  the  company  of  her 
equals  and  assert  a  proper  superiority ;  but  he  would 
not  have  denied  the  desire  to  be  alone  with  her,  and 

145 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

he  began  to  say  that  he  had  been  very  blind  when 
the  Long  Gallery  caged  so  wild  a  bird  for  him. 

"Let  us  see!"  he  exclaimed;  "how  many  weeks 
have  passed  since  we  met  ?" 

She  told  him  instantly. 

"It  is  just  ten  weeks  since  you  came  to  the  farm 
to  see  my  father." 

He  was  gratified  that  she  should  have  remem- 
bered it.  A  flash  of  memory  in  her  eyes  upbraided 
her  confession. 

"And  eleven  weeks  also  since  you  promised  me 
not  to  forget.  But  I  hope  you  have  forgotten." 

"No  one  has,"  she  rejoined  simply;  "people  on 
Bell  Island  never  forget.  That  is  sure  and  certain. 
They  won't  like  you  any  the  better  for  having  them 
to  your  house.  They  will  take  what  you  give  them 
and  then  go  away  and  laugh  at  you.  That's  our 
character — I  know  it." 

"But  not  yours ;  I'll  answer  for  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  impatiently.  The  rhodo- 
tnontade  of  nonsense  always  exasperated  her. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  think?  The  master 
of  the  island  doesn't  want  the  women's  good  will, 
he  wants  the  men's.  And  you  haven't  got  it,  Mr. 
Canning.  There  isn't  one  of  them  who  will  say  a 
good  word  for  you  when  your  back  is  turned." 

"Am  I  not  to  include  your  father  in  the  honor- 
able exceptions?" 

146 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Oh,  father  is  worse  than  any  of  them.  He  says 
you  mean  to  ruin  the  people,  and  they  believe  him.'' 

"And  so  they  all  come  here  to  dance  on  my 
lawn?" 

"Of  course  they  do;  and  to  tell  each  other  after- 
ward that  you  were  silly  to  have  them." 

Canning  was  greatly  tickled.  This  was  exactly 
the  kind  of  talk  he  used  to  encourage  in  the  old 
days.  The  girl  was  revealing  her  character  swiftly. 
He  wondered  how  much  of  tenderness  and  the 
womanly  instinct  lay  behind  this  plaster  of  shrewd 
wit,  and  who  would  be  the  man  to  discover  it 

"Naturally,"  he  said  presently,  "I  am  very  much 
concerned  about  it.  I  should,  of  course,  pay  some 
attention  to  my  guests'  opinions." 

"You  pay  some,"  she  rejoined,  "or  you  would 
not  have  had  them  here  to-day.  If  you  were  in- 
different, Mr.  Canning,  not  one  of  us  would  have 
passed  the  Castle  gates." 

"That's  very  true.  I  must  tell  my  friend,  Mr. 
Hobby,  that — he  gave  the  party." 

She  looked  at  him  shyly,  some  displeasure  in  her 
glance. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  quietly;  "yon 
thought  he  was  right  or  you  would  not  have  the 
people  here." 

"And  you  blame  me  for  that?" 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"Oh,  no,  I  think  you  are  right.  They  won't  be 
able  to  say  that  you  didn't  try  to  please  them." 

He  laughed,  with  a  business  man's  disdain. 

"They  may  say  what  they  please,  my  dear  young 
lady — when  I  have  had  my  own  way.  That's  some- 
thing I  generally  get,  even  if  I  have  to  tread  on 
other  people's  toes  to  get  it.  These  good  folks  are 
merely  obstinate.  I  am  trying  to  find  out  how  to 
deal  with  them.  When  I  discover  the  right  way,  a 
great  many  things  will  happen  on  Bell  Island — but 
there  may  be  none  of  those  present  here  to-day  to 
witness  them." 

Jesse  looked  a  little  afraid  at  this.  She  liked  his 
masterfulness,  but  it  awed  her.  Deeds,  but  not 
diplomacy,  had  prevailed  hitherto  on  Bell  Island. 
She  would  not  have  been  of  the  people  had  not 
these  new  methods  found  her  reticent. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  you  will  do  what  is 
wise,  and  what  is  just.  It  is  easy  to  be  unjust  to 
simple  people,  Mr.  Canning.  You  understand  that 
much  better  than  I  do." 

"But  if  I  am  merely  just — if  I  give  them  their 
rights  and  nothing  more?" 

"Ah,  that  is  what  every  one  says  when  he  does 
not  get  all  he  wants.  Our  rights,  Mr.  Canning,  are 
so  often  other  people's  wrongs." 

''Meaning >  But  no,  I  am  not  going  to  preach 

a  sermon,  Miss  Jesse.  Let  us  talk  of  something 

148 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

else.  Do  you  remember  the  last  morning  you 
climbed  the  turret  stair?  It  was  eleven  weeks  ago, 
you  say.  Let  us  climb  it  together  now,  and  see  if 
we  find  the  house  changed.  My  pictures  are  in  the 
Long  Gallery.  Will  you  let  me  show  them  to  you  ?" 

She  assented  with  a  nod,  though  her  color  height- 
ened at  his  invitation.  They  had  come  to  the  house 
by  this  time,  and,  entering  by  the  wicket,  found 
themselves  presently  in  the  Long  Gallery  where 
Jesse  had  spent  so  many  hours  of  dreaming.  She 
would  hardly  have  known  the  place,  she  said — such 
furniture,  such  cushioned  alcoves,  great  pictures 
upon  the  walls,  rare  china,  so  many  flowers.  She 
knew  not  whether  to  praise  or  blame.  But  her  man- 
ner changed  the  moment  she  had  passed  the  door. 
She  was  no  longer  the  shrewd  daughter  of  a  self- 
seeking  farmer.  The  atmosphere  of  the  house 
transfigured  her. 

"You  came  here  often  in  the  old  days,"  Canning 
said ;  "why  did  you  come,  Miss  Jesse  ?" 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  cringing,  "I  could  never,  never 
tell  you." 

"But  I  could.  You  came  because  you  were  able 
to  live  in  another  age,  among  another  people.  You 
came  because  imagination  has  rare  gifts  for  some 
of  us,  and  they  were  yours.  I  knew  it  when  I  first 
saw  you  in  this  room;  I  admired  you  because  of  it. 
Now,  honestly,  is  not  this  the  truth?" 

149 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"If  I  must  tell  you,"  she  pouted ;  and  then,  "Why 
did  you  bring  me  here,  Mr.  Canning?  That's  a 
question  for  a  question." 

"I  brought  you  here  that  I  might  try  to  under- 
stand you.  Was  that  quite  a  hopeless  business — a 
mutual  understanding?" 

She  shook  her  head  sagely. 

"My  father  says  that  no  man  ever  understands  a 
woman — and  doesn't  wish  to.  What  can  it  matter 
to  you  whether  you  understand  me  or  not?  I  am 
only  a  farmer's  daughter,  while  you " 

"Are  a  farmer's  son.  That's  telling  you  my  his- 
tory. But  I  want  to  show  you  my  pictures.  Do 
you  like  pictures,  Miss  Jesse  ?  They  tell  me  you  are 
very  clever  with  your  brushes.  Well,  come  here 
and  paint  when  you  like.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  you,  and  we  shall  be  quite  alone." 

She  looked  up  quickly  at  this — the  dark  eyes  shot 
a  ray  of  suspicion,  but  as  instantly  softened  to  kind- 
ness. The  Castle  open  to  her  again,  and  at  the  bid- 
ding of  the  stranger! 

"I  should  like  to  come,"  she  exclaimed ;  and  then, 
"I  have  never  seen  pictures  like  these.  How  ugly 
some  of  them  are." 

"Artists  would  not  agree  with  you.  Come,  now, 
that  is  a  study  of  children  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
I  paid  a  great  deal  of  money  for  that.  You  don't 
find  the  angels  ugly?" 

ISO 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"They  are  sweet  faces.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
picture  next  to  it — the  lady  crowned  with  stars." 

"Ah,  Ariadne,  after  Rubens.  A  Grecian  edition 
of  a  three-person  play — do  I  puzzle  you?  Well,  the 
case  of  a  lady  who  ran  away  from  her  father's 
home  because  she  fell  in  love  with  a  fine  fellow  who 
deserted  her.  Then  came  the  other  man  who 
crowned  her  with  stars — not  from  Tiffany's.  The 
allegory  is  of  the  rich  man  snapping  up  the  relics 
of  a  dead  passion.  Now,  I  can't  understand  that. 
The  woman  who  loves  me  must  love  me  wholly.  I 
should  be  a  passionate  lover — she  must  be  a  pas- 
sionate mistress.  I  shall  ask  for  blind  devotion, 
willing  consent — there  must  be  no  modernity  about 
it,  nothing  but  her  love.  Could  you  believe  that?" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  her  bosom 
heaving. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "I  have  loved  like  that  in  my 
dreams." 

"Here  in  this  room?" 

"Yes,  yes,  here  in  this  room." 

"A  figure  your  imagination  sent  to  you — cavalier, 
soldier,  prince  of  cities,  a  hero  in  shining  armor. 
Then  comes  modernity  in  pepper  and  salt — alas, 
alas !  are  there  any  lovers  in  this  age,  or  is  all  senti- 
ment bound  in  vellum  and  gilt-clasped?" 

She  but  half  understood  him,  and  they  continued 
their  tour  of  the  gallery.  Madonnas  in  the  blues 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

which  Murillo  loved  earned  but  a  titter  or  a  shy 
question — she  cared  nothing  for  the  mighty  alle- 
gories which  Tintoretto  dreamed.  When  she 
stopped  it  was  before  a  modern  canvas,  open  and 
yellow  and  rich  in  marbles.  Here  a  fine  fellow 
capered  on  a  horse,  while  above  at  the  barbican 
my  lady  flung  him  a  rose.  This  had  blazed  in  a 
Christmas  number;  the  author  told  you  that  the 
man  was  in  disgrace,  and  rode  away  with  shame 
shrouded  on  the  pummel.  But  Jesse  knew  nothing 
of  the  story.  "How  beautiful !"  she  said — and  Can- 
ning smiled. 

"She's  given  him  a  rose.  The  fellow  was  ac- 
cused of  cheating,  and  rode  away  to  the  wilderness. 
She,  of  course,  believed  nothing.  You  can  see  the 
crowd  in  the  background — they  always  spent  their 
days  gossiping  on  marble  seats  when  Henry  III.  was 
King  of  France — the  crowd  is  glad,  and  says  he's 
done  for.  But  he  carries  the  rose  into  the  wilder- 
ness— which  reminds  me,  Miss  Jesse,  you  have  a 
red  rose  in  your  dress.  Upon  my  word,  what  a  coin- 
cidence !" 

He  stepped  back  to  look  straight  into  her  eyes. 
She  could  not  utter  a  single  word. 

And  he  plucked  the  rose  from  its  nesting  place 
and  put  it  to  his  lips. 


152 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


WISDOM  OF  THE  SIMPLE 

SHE  came  almost  every  day,  wondering  at  her 
courage,  but  impelled  by  it  to  come.  He  had  invited 
her  to  continue  her  studies  in  the  Long  Gallery,  and 
she  obeyed  him — caring  so  little  for  art,  so  much 
for  her  secret.  As  an  altar  in  a  church,  so  was  her 
easel  set  up.  She  must  paint  because  he  had  com- 
manded it.  -Ah,  but  to  listen  for  his  step  in  the  cor- 
ridor beyond,  to  bend  to  the  canvas  at  his  entry,  to 
feel  his  breath  upon  her  neck  as  he  bent  over  her — 
to  know! 

Now,  here  was  a  man  who  had  discovered  in  an 
instant  the  master-key  to  life.  He  knew  nothing  of 
it  in  his  boyhood,  the  world  had  not  given  it  to  him; 
shame  and  the  abyss  had  taught  him  nothing.  But 
Bell  Island  revealed  the  golden  gate  and  showed 
him  the  way. 

An  islet  of  green  downs  in  a  fair  waterway;  the 
coast  of  England  shimmering  upon  his  horizon ;  far 
down  in  the  valley  a  village,  and  beyond,  the  ships — 
but  here  in  this  droning  house  a  sense  of  isolation 

153 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

and  security  which  satisfied  him  beyond  all  words 
to  tell.  Canning  had  come  to  the  place  to  rest.  Per- 
haps some  ambition  to  found  a  little  kingdom,  to  be 
the  master  of  its  people,  sent  him  across  the  seas. 
But  he  had  found  instead — Jesse.  And  he  had  but  to 
find  her  to  perceive  in  her  love  a  finality  which 
should  crown  his  life. 

This  child  of  the  untutored  life,  this  waif  of  the 
cliffs,  this  black-eyed  Madonna  of  the  sea,  with  her 
plump  bare  feet  and  her  round  pink  limbs,  her  good 
common  sense  and  her  moments  of  ecstasy — what  a 
gem  to  wear,  what  a  treasure  for  his  keeping !  And 
she  had  responded  already  to  those  swift  advances 
the  world  taught  him  how  to  make.  She  thrilled  at 
his  touch,  let  her  warm  hand  rest  in  his,  looked  into 
his  heart  and  did  not  quail — nobody  but  Jesse 
counted  now.  He  did  not  care  twopence  what  the 
people  did  or  what  they  forbore  to  do.  The  old 
masterfulness  said  that  he  had  but  to  speak  and  his 
desires  were  gratified. 

They  were  critical  Hays  in  the  lives  of  both,  and 
for  the  most  part  lived  alone.  When  Hobby,  who 
had  been  over  on  the  mainland  laying  the  founda- 
tions of  his  church,  returned  to  Bell  Island,  he  sized 
up  the  affair  in  a  moment. 

"Do  you  mean  to  marry  her,  Canning?"  he  asked; 
and  Canning  said  "yes"  as  quickly. 

"Then  you  have  told  her  all  the  story?" 

154 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"The  story!     What  story?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  can't  put  it  plainer.  She 
ought  to  know.  Her  father  ought  to  know.  I 
don't  think  you  can  keep  it  from  them — you  have 
no  right  to  do  so." 

It  came  as  a  thunderclap  to  Canning;  firstly,  be- 
cause he  had  never  faced  the  question  squarely,  and, 
secondly,  because  Jesse's  position  distorted  his  view 
and  showed  him  no  true  proportions  of  the  affair. 
In  London  he  had  come  to  understand  what  it 
means  to  have  been  in  prison — the  hopelessness  of 
the  outlook,  the  utter  abandonment,  the  perpetual 
voicing  of  the  past,  the  social  branding  which  no 
iron  could  better.  But  here  upon  Bell  Island  he  had 
almost  obliterated  the  truth.  A  farmer's  daughter! 
What  were  business  affairs  to  her,  the  vortex  and 
its  victims,  the  giddy  pinnacles  and  the  black 
depths?  He  was  neither  thief  nor  criminal.  If  he 
had  failed,  his  failure  was  well  understood  in 
Threadneedle  Street,  where  half  the  dealers  might 
be  prosecuted  on  a  similar  charge  to-morrow.  Cer- 
tainly, no  scruples  of  his  conscience  drove  him  to 
confession. 

"Do  you  really  mean,  Hobby,  that  I  must  put  my- 
self in  the  penitentiary  because  of  these  people? 
But  I'll  ask  you  another  question.  Why  did  I  come 
to  Bell  Island  at  all?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Canning,  you  came  at  my  request 

155 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

— to  rest.  You  came  because  your  friends  treated 
you  badly  and  you  wished  to  make  a  new  home.  I 
thought  you  were  wise  to  come,  I  think  you  would 
be  wise  to  marry  Jesse  Fearney — if  you  tell  her 
father  everything." 

"Her  father !  Oh,  come,  that's  beyond  all  reason. 
Am  I  to  go  upon  my  hands  and  knees  in  the  mud 
because  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  farmer's  daugh- 
ter?" 

"I  don't  think  that.  You  are  a  judge  of  men, 
and  will  know.  We  take  a  very  favorable  view  of 
things  when  they  are  gilded  sufficiently.  I  should 
say  old  Fearney  will  be  very  reasonable.  If  he  does 
not  think  that  you  ought  to  tell  Jesse,  very  well,  it's 
his  business,  and  you  can  always  tell  her  when 
you're  married." 

"When  I  am  married;  yes,  I  could  tell  her  then. 
You  have  put  something  new  into  my  head,  Hobby. 
Frankly,  I  never  thought  it  would  be  anything  to 
these  people.  Perhaps  I  do  not  understand  even 
yet.  It  is  difficult  for  a  man  who  has  been  through 
the  mill.  I  may  be,  in  the  world's  eyes,  no  better 
than  the  lowest  ruffian  at  Portland — yes,  I  must  not 
forget  it — but  the  farmer,  that  crabbed  old  devil 
who  has  done  me  all  the  mischief No,  it's  im- 
possible, Hobby — you  will  admit  yourself  that  it  is 
impossible!" 

Hobby  admitted  nothing  of  the  kind;  but  he 
156 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

turned  the  subject  adroitly,  knowing  that  it  would 
be  henceforth  much  in  Canning's  mind.  And  this 
was  true.  It  haunted  him  from  that  moment.  He 
thought  upon  it  waking  and  sleeping,  debated  it  in 
lonely  places  apart,  began  to  ask  himself  if  this  in- 
deed were  not  the  aftermath  of  a  punishment  which 
already  had  won  the  commiseration  of  some  of  his 
fellow  men. 

To  bear  the  brand  eternally.  To  feel  the  hurt  of 
it  even  upon  this  lonely  shore,  from  whose  heights 
he  could  see  the  England  whence  they  had  driven 
him.  And  no  way  of  escape,  save  by  that  confes- 
sional which  the  Almighty  has  built  for  every  man 
and  every  man  must  visit  Nor  had  he  a  doubt  now 
that  his  friend  was  right.  Never  again  could  he 
look  into  the  child's  eyes  if  an  image  of  his  own 
cowardice  must  meet  him  there.  He  would  tell  her 
that  very  morning.  Was  she  not  already  in  the 
Long  Gallery  awaiting  him?  He  would  throw 
himself  upon  her  pity,  he  would  tell  her  the  story,  he 
who  had  never  dared  to  speak  of  his  past  since  the 
prison  gates  were  opened  for  John  Canning  to  pass 
out. 

The  determination  was  very  real,  and  took  him 
to  the  gallery  without  delay.  Jesse  was  there,  of 
course,  not  wearing  stockings  and  the  ribbands  this 
time,  but  Jesse  of  the  Pharos  again,  barefooted  and 
with  her  hair  upon  her  shoulders,  the  Jesse  he  had 

157 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

asked  her  to  be  in  some  mood  of  a  sensuous  desire. 
Seated  upon  the  edge  of  an  old  mahogany  table,  she 
had  an  easel  before  her,  and  an  ill-done  sketch  of 
the  "Knight  of  the  White  Swan"  in  black  outline 
upon  it.  Canning  remembered  that  he  had  sug- 
gested this  very  picture  to  her — unconsciously  his 
mind  had  anticipated  Ernest  Hobby's  question.  Co- 
incidence would  never  have  named  such  a  study — he 
could  not  believe  it  possible. 

Now  Jesse  looked  up  from  her  work  for  an  in- 
stant as  Canning  entered,  but  as  swiftly  resumed 
her  task.  It  needed  no  formality  of  words  to  ex- 
press her  pleasure  or  to  read  the  story  which  her 
eyes  betrayed.  Was  not  this  poor  pencil  of  hers 
sketching  the  White  Knight  as  her  own  imagina- 
tion shaped  him — no  figure  of  myth  and  legend,  but 
of  this  very  room,  the  master  of  Bell  Island  and, 
for  her,  the  master  of  the  world?  The  story  as  her 
lover  had  told  it  to  her,  in  soft  words  breathed  into 
her  eager  ear,  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  her  own 
romance  and  lingered  there.  She  delighted  in  all 
that  poetic  comparison,  applauding  faith  and  shed- 
ding secret  tears  upon  the  treachery.  And  now  her 
pencil  sought  to  portray  the  dream,  but  succeeded  in 
nothing  more  than  a  sorry  smudge  of  bedraggled 
plumes  and  swans  most  miserable. 

"Oh,""  she  said  pitifully,  "why  did  they  tell  me  I 
was  an  artist?" 

158 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

He  came  and  stood  by  her  side,  and  looked  kindly 
at  so  ill  an  effort. 

"But  it  gives  you  pleasure  to  draw,  does  it  not?" 
he  asked  her. 

"It  gives  me  pleasure  to  see  such  things  with  my 
eyes — I  cannot  make  others  see  them." 

"But  the  story  is  your  own  story.  You  know 
the  man — I  can  see  that  your  Knight  would  never 
have  been  betrayed." 

"His  secret  would  have  been  safe  with  me." 

"Whatever  it  had  been  ?" 

"He  would  not  have  been  afraid — when  we  set 
up  an  image  in  our  hearts  we  know  it  wholly. 
There  are  few  secrets  a  woman  does  not  discover, 
Mr.  Canning." 

"And  few  she  does  not  imagine  she  has  discov- 
ered." 

Jesse  did  not  like  these  swift  asides.  They  en- 
tered in  so  often,  elbowing  her  pretty  idols  and  shat- 
tering them  with  the  wand  of  a  satire  very  foreign 
to  her  own  nature.  She  would  have  preferred  a 
child's  make-believe,  castles  and  keeps  and  moated 
dungeons,  Sir  Rupert  of  the  Black  Plumes  and  a 
veritable  Dulcinea  del  Toboso. 

"Oh,"  she  said  pettishly,  "you  are  never  serious, 
Mr.  Canning." 

"And  your  knights  are  always  serious.  Imagine 
a  knight's  laugh  when  he  had  his  vizor  on." 

159 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"My  father  always  says  that  they  saved  a  fortune 
in  shoe  leather." 

"Your  father  also  being  a  Philistine.  Is  it  true, 
by  the  way,  that  he  is  still  over  on  the  mainland  ?  I 
heard  the  rumor  yesterday." 

"He  is  very  much  there  now.  I  cannot  tell  you 
why.  He  does  not  like  to  speak  of  his  business  to 
me." 

"You  are  wise  to  respect  his  reticence.  After  all, 
there  is  a  good  deal  in  a  man's  life  with  which 
women  have  no  concern." 

"I  suppose  there  must  be.  My  father  thinks  all 
girls  were  born  for  the  dairy — he  is  afraid  to  trust 
me  with  the  least  thing." 

"Even  a  letter.  There  is  a  little  bird  which  tells 
me  of  a  letter." 

Jesse  sprang  up,  blushing  furiously. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  cried;  and  then, 
"Why,  I  do  believe  I've  left  it  at  home." 

"There's  no  doubt  at  all  about  it — the  girl  came 
up  with  it  ten  minutes  ago.  I  see  it  has  been  sent  to 
you  in  another  envelope,  and  that  you  were  to  de- 
liver it  yourself  to  me." 

"That's  my  father's  way  of  doing  things.  He 
would  be  thinking  of  the  postage.  Well,  there  it  is. 
I'm  sure  it's  about  something  dreadful." 

Canning  opened  the  letter  uneasily.  He  was  a 
little  flushed,  and  his  hand  not  so  steady  as  it  had 

160 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

been.    Premonition  told  him  the  truth — the  old  man 
had  heard  the  story  and  wished  to  be  sure  of  it. 

"DEAR  SIR,"  the  note  ran, 

"Be  good  enough  to  inform  me  if  you  are  the 
John  Canning,  late  of  London,  referred  to  in  the 
enclosed  newspaper.  My  daughter  will  bring  me 
your  answer,  which  I  shall  make  known  to  her  or 
not  as  the  necessity  may  arise.  Her  frequent  visits 
to  your  house  must  be  my  excuse  for  troubling  you 
upon  a  matter  which  is  painful. 

"Sir,  yours  obediently, 

"JAPHON  FEARNEY." 

Canning  read  the  letter,  and  then  opened  the 
newspaper  cutting.  It  referred  to  his  trial  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  a  highly  colored  report  full  of  the 
necessary  sensations.  This  he  had  never  seen  hith- 
erto. There  is  some  mercy  of  the  aftermath  of  pun- 
ishment which  shuts  the  door  upon  the  condemned 
criminal  immediately;  banishes  him  beyond  the 
range  of  clamor  and  hides  his  own  disgrace  from 
his  weary  eyes.  Canning  had  believed  in  prison 
that  men  thought  lightly  of  his  offence.  The  news- 
paper shocked  him.  It  wailed  of  widows  and  or- 
phans, of  fortunes  lost  and  homes  ruined;  it  spoke 
of  financial  wolves  preying  upon  a  weak  and  igno- 
rant humanity.  And  he — he  was  the  man. 

161 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Oh,  to  tell  the  child  this — this  little  dreamer  with 
the  White  Knight  rowing  on  the  golden  lake  of  her 
happiness,  to  break  in  upon  her  visions  with  such  a 
story,  to  say  to  her,  "Read — I  am  the  man" !  Can- 
ning knew  now  that  he  could  not  tell  her — at  any 
rate,  not  here  in  the  citadel  of  her  dreams.  It  might 
be  that  he  would  never  tell  her.  A  powerful  sense 
of  the  justice  of  a  father's  appeal  animated  a  quick 
response,  however,  and  he  sat  down  at  a  desk  and 
wrote  the  monosyllable  "Yes"  across  the  paper. 
Then  he  folded  and  sealed  the  letter. 

"Please  take  that  to  your  father,"  he  said;  and 
then  very  earnestly,  "Do  you  expect  him  to-day?" 

"It  will  be  to-day,"  she  stammered,  amazed  by  his 
manner. 

"Then  please  to  take  it  at  once.  He  is  waiting 
for  it." 

He  turned  and  left  her.  The  rose  at  her  heart 
was  unplucked  this  day.  She  believed  that  some 
great  misfortune  had  overtaken  them  both,  and 
crept  from  the  Castle  with  the  step  of  one  who  is 
affronted  and  ashamed. 


162 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JAPHON  RESOLVES  UPON  SILENCE 

JESSE  hastened  with  her  letter  to  the  farm,  but 
her  father  had  not  yet  returned.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  he  did  not  put  off  from  Barnstaple  until  seven 
o'clock  that  night,  and  when  he  gained  the  open  sea 
an  obstinate  wind  from  the  sou'west  made  passage 
difficult.  Later  on  there  fell  a  dead  calm,  and  the 
September  night  was  ushered  in  upon  that — a  night 
of  a  mackerel  sky  and  a  lopping  sea,  of  vast  ships 
upon  a  hazy  horizon,  and  the  fishermen's  boats 
drifting  upon  a  sluggish  tide. 

Japhon  made  no  complaint  of  the  delay.  In 
truth,  he  liked  these  lonely  nights  at  sea ;  liked  their 
opportunities  for  quiet  reflection,  their  changing 
beauty,  the  panorama  of  sky  and  shore  which 
marked  the  river's  channel;  and  then  across  the 
waste  of  waters  to  those  stars  upon  a  near  horizon, 
which  spoke  of  the  harbor  and  of  home.  A  true 
seaman,  he  dared  the  passage  jauntily,  would  have 
scoffed  at  caution  mongers  and  derided  those  who 
prated  of  shallows  or  'unfriendly  shores.  His  peril 

163 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISON  HR 

did  not  lie  here.  He  could  remember  that  with 
equanimity  upon  this  particular  occasion,  when  he 
sailed  with  no  other  object  that  that  of  making  his 
home,  and  traded  no  other  merchandise  than  that 
of  his  own  thoughts. 

Angus  had  been  wise  at  last.  It  was  time  to  let 
the  business  go,  for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate. 
Well  enough  for  the  poor  seamen  to  run  their  paltry 
kegs  of  spirit  and  bales  of  tobacco — but  when  a 
man  dealt  in  more  dangerous  commodities,  when 
the  penalties  would  amount  to  a  small  fortune  and 
default  would  spell  an  exemplary  sentence,  then 
truly  should  Prudence  get  a  hearing.  He  was 
pleased  with  Angus,  very  pleased;  and  as  he  sat 
back  in  the  cuddy  of  his  ketch,  smoked  an  honest 
pipe  and  watched  the  lazy  movements  of  the  two 
men  in  the  bows,  he  came  as  near  to  content  as 
Japhon  Fearney  had  been  for  many  a  long  day. 

He  was  going  home  to  marry  Jesse,  his  daughter, 
and  to  humble  the  man  who  would  take  her  to  wife. 
The  truth  about  Canning's  story  was  now  perfectly 
well  known  to  him.  This  fine  gentleman  had  tried 
to  rob  other  fine  gentlemen,  and  the  law  had  caught 
him  in  the  act.  Very  well,  that  was  his  misfortune, 
a  misfortune  by  which  both  father  and  daughter 
should  profit  presently.  "Let  him  come  to  me  on 
his  hams,"  the  old  fellow  put  it  coarsely,  "and  I 
will  listen  to  him.  He  wants  my  daughter  pretty 

164 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

bad,  and  by  all  accounts  would  make  her  a  tolerable 
husband.  Well,  let  him  have  her  when  he  knows 
how  to  ask  for  her.  That  will  make  me  master  of 
the  place,  and  there'll  be  no  call  to  tell  any  one  else 
unless  they  inquire  about  it.  His  interest  will  be 
my  interest — and  he  shall  pay  for  both." 

The  thought,  base  and  mercenary,  pleased  the 
old  man  and  moved  him  to  a  sardonic  smile.  After 
all,  luck  had  sent  such  a  man  to  the  island — for 
without  luck  one  of  a  very  different  stamp  might 
have  bought  the  place  and  ruled  there.  A  con- 
victed felon  must  be  easier  to  deal  with.  Japhon 
foresaw  himself  putting  his  hand  deep  into  Can- 
ning's fortune  and  still  unsatisfied.  It  would  be 
better  than  the  business,  he  said,  and  entail  none  of 
the  risks. 

For  surely  there  were  risks  enough.  This  very 
night,  for  instance,  what  a  fright  he  had !  It  would 
have  been  about  nine  o'clock  when  it  had  fallen  very 
dark,  and  the  wind  died  away  to  a  mere  whisper. 
He  lay  some  two  miles  from  the  English  shore  and 
eight,  perhaps,  from  Bell  Island.  The  yacht's  red 
and  green  lanterns  were  burning  brightly,  and  she 
rode  easily  to  a  lazy  swell.  As  to  the  two  hands, 
they  lay  full  length  in  the  fo'castle;  Japhon  had  just 
knocked  out  the  ashes  of  a  soothing  pipe,  when  the 
black  shape  of  a  launch  moved  by  him  swiftly  in 
the  darkness,  and  was  instantly  lost  in  the  void  be- 

165 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

yond  the  aureole  of  the  cuddy  lantern.  Japhon  had 
not  expected  this — to-night.  He  started  up  and 
asked  the  men  a  hurried  question. 

"Did  they  speak  you,  Jo?" 

"Not  a  word,  master." 

"Then  what,  in  thunder,  is  he  doing  here  to- 
night." 

"Can't  tell  you,  sir — nobody  said  nothing." 

"Hail  him  if  he  goes  about — speak  cautious,  Jo. 
Hail  him  ordinary." 

"He's  going  about  now,  master.  I  hear  the 
wash." 

All  listened  and  heard  the  hum  of  a  steamer's 
propeller,  fitful  and  varying.  The  man  Isaacson, 
the  Swede,  said  curtly,  "Backing,  master."  Jo,  the 
nigger,  listened  with  his  ear  laid  almost  to  the  water. 

"He's  coming  on  the  starboard  quarter,  Masser 
Japhon." 

"Then  get  out  your  sweeps  and  stand  by.  Does 
he  think  he'll  sink  me  for  a  change? — the  jowned 
idiot,  why  didn't  he  send  word?" 

He  was  trembling  with  excitement,  the  old  man 
who  had  dared  many  a  venture  such  as  this  and  not 
known  a  tremor.  A  quick  eye  searching  the  hither 
sea  discovered  neither  the  masthead  light  of  any 
ship  at  anchor  nor  the  lanterns  of  a  moving  vessel. 
Apprehension,  he  knew  not  of  what  development, 
dominated  his  acts.  He  waited  for  the  launch,  erect 

166 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

at  the  tiller  and  defiant.  The  fools !  Why  had  they 
not  warned  him?  And  here  they  were  blundering 
down  in  the  darkness — without  a  glimmer  of  light 
save  that  which  glowed  above  the  launch's  funnel. 

"Ahoy,  ahoy!    Where  are  you  coming  to  then?" 

"What  ship's  that?" 

"The  Pharos  out  of  Bell  Island.    Who  are  you?" 

"I'll  ask  you  another;  where  are  your  lanterns? 
We've  seen  none  of  them." 

"We  didn't  know " 

An  angry  roar  from  the  cuddy  shut  the  negro's 
mouth.  Japhon  had  listened  with  his  heart  in  his 
mouth,  but  this  new  folly  almost  choked  his  utter- 
ance. 

"What  have  we  to  do  with  lanterns?"  he  cried. 
"Ain't  ours  burning?  Do  you  go  mind  your  own 
affairs.  Where's  yourn? — I'll  ask  ye  that  to  begin 
with.  What  are  you  doing  here  like  pirates  in  the 
dark?  Don't  talk  about  the  Government — no  Gov- 
ernment has  the  right  to  sink  a  man  in  his  own  ship 
— but  I'll  speak  about  that  to  the  Admiral,  and 
sharp,  too." 

A  suave  voice  speaking  from  a  hidden  place  upon 
the  launch's  deck  answered  the  wild  words. 
Japhon's  heart  sank  within  him  when  he  heard  it. 
"Good  evening,  Mr.  Fearney.  I'm  Morris  of  Bide- 
ford.  Sorry  to  have  put  you  to  any  inconvenience, 
but  we're  looking  for  strangers.  You  won't  have 

167 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

seen  an  unlikely  ketch  between  here  and  the  Pharos 
to-night?" 

The  old  man  needed  all  his  courage  to  answer 
this ;  nevertheless,  he  spoke  out  loudly. 

"There  was  no  stranger  about  when  I  came  out. 
If  I  sight  one  I'll  signal.  You  should  go  more 
careful,  Mr.  Morris.  There's  other  beside  strange 
ketches  in  these  waters." 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure — I'll  remember  that,  Mr. 
Fearney.  Good  night  to  you  now— and  all  well  at 
home,  I  hope?" 

Japhon  mumbled  something  as  he  gave  an  order 
to  the  hands  to  haul  on  the  jib  sheet.  A  puff  of 
wind  coming  up  from  the  south  helped  him  to  drift 
away  from  the  launch  and  to  lose  her  quickly  in  the 
darkness,  but  he  carried  with  him  a  clear  impression 
of  the  spoken  words,  and  could  have  set  them  down 
on  paper  there  and  then.  A  strange  ketch!  The 
coastguard  searching  for  her — without  lanterns. 
The  business  known  and  now  become  the  chief 
affair  of  the  officers  at  Bideford !  As  in  a  flash  he 
recalled  the  nigger's  foolish  hail  and  its  conse- 
quences! What  would  the  man  Morris  make  of 
that?  What  interpretation  would  he  put  upon  it? 
Good  God!  he  said,  if  the  black  man  had  done  for 
them — and  in  a  torrent  of  anger  he  began  to  rate 
the  pair  of  them.  Did  they  know  what  they  were 
doing?  Did  they  understand  that  this  meant  jail, 

168 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

starvation  afterward,  or  a  lousy  fo'castle  of  some 
foreign  trader?  Had  he  not  rewarded  them  richly 
— and  they  would  not  learn!  To  serve  him  like 
this — to  bring  danger  upon  him  and  all  their  heads 
when  danger  lay  a  hundred  miles  away. 

The  men  answered  nothing  to  this  wild  tirade. 
In  truth  they  cared  little,  believing  that  the  law 
would  not  trouble  itself  overmuch  about  two  poor 
sailor-men.  Indeed,  the  nigger  lit  a  pipe  as  he 
talked,  and  when  Japhon  called  him  over  and  bade 
him  take  the  tiller,  he  plainly  showed  that  he  would 
stand  no  nonsense. 

"You  look  after  yourself,  Masser  Japhon — me 
and  Isaacson,  we  do  our  own  business.  You  make 
yourself  safe — no  matter  about  us." 

"No  matter — you  black  fool.  Is  prison  no  mat- 
ter?" 

The  nigger  grinned. 

"I  do  five  months  in  St.  Louis  jail  for  hitting 
white  man.  I  can  do  same  here  if  white  man  call 
me  black  fool." 

Japhon  had  no  answer.  He  knew  well  enough 
that  he  was  in  the  power  of  these  men,  and  no 
match  physically  for  either  of  them.  The  hulking 
figure  of  the  black  man,  the  white  teeth  grinning 
in  the  darkness,  the  catlike  eyes  frightened  him. 
What  easier  than  for  such  a  man  to  throw  him  into 
the  sea — and  come  to  port  with  a  story  of  an  acci- 

169 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

dent?  Japhon  turned  away  without  a  word  and 
went  down  to  the  cabin  to  mix  himself  a  stiff  glass 
of  rum  and  to  nurse  a  thousand  fears. 

Discovery — it  could  be  nothing  less  than  that — 
black  discovery,  and  afterward  the  end!  He,  the 
great  example,  the  chief  man  on  Bell  Island,  the 
magistrate,  the  preacher,  arrested  by  common  po- 
lice officers  and  taken  over  to  his  trial  on  the  main- 
land. And  afterward  the  crash,  the  monstrous  fine, 
the  exemplary  sentence.  He  could  see  in  imagina- 
tion the  little  knots  of  gossipers  discussing  the 
news,  hear  the  story  running  from  cottage  to  cot- 
tage. How  some  of  them  would  rejoice !  And  the 
man  up  at  the  Castle,  why  he  had  not  thought  of 
him.  Ay,  truly  this  would  be  John  Canning's  day. 
Japhon  reflected  ironically  that  this  was  the  son-in- 
law  whose  fortunes  he  would  have  shared,  and  by 
whose  past  he  would  have  profited.  What  a  mock- 
ery of  hope !  What  a  turn  of  fortune's  wheel ! 

The  crisis  of  a  personal  peril  is  rarely  unaccom- 
panied by  some  interval  of  a  better  hope — nor  was 
Japhon  Fearney  unblessed  by  that  Coming  up  on 
deck  at  dawn,  he  discovered  the  ketch  to  be  still 
some  miles  from  the  harbor  and  the  wind  fallen 
to  a  dead  calm  in  spite  of  the  promise  of  yester- 
night. A  clear,  cold  light  declared  the  familiar 
scene  in  all  its  bald  outline — the  rugged  jetty,  the 
iron  lantern,  the  beached  ships,  the  white  houses  be- 

170 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

yond,  the  green  jalousies,  the  school,  the  chapel. 
How  often  had  he  landed  there  and  walked  up  the 
hill  with  the  firm  tread  and  the  jaunty  carriage  of  a 
man  who  had  succeeded!  With  what  dignity  and 
severity  had  he  not  administered  justice  in  the  puny 
court!  And  what  veneration  had  been  paid  to  him 
— how  the  poor  folk  hung  upon  his  lightest  word, 
that  haply  it  might  bring  them  profit!  The  night 
might  have  changed  all  this — Japhon  remembered 
that  he  might  be  landing  there  for  the  last  time,  en- 
joying the  last  hour  of  triumph  he  would  know 
upon  Bell  Island. 

He  remembered  it  and,  none  the  less,  a  sudden 
freshet  of  consolation  reassured  him.  How  if  his 
fears  were  purely  of  his  own  imagination?  Would 
so  clever  a  man  as  Holly  Angus  have  neglected  to 
utter  a  warning  had  there  been  danger  abroad? 
And  why  should  Morris,  the  exciseman,  leap  to  so 
swift  a  conclusion?  Japhon  said  that  he  had  been  a 
fool  to  make  so  much  of  so  little,  and  fell  to  blam- 
ing the  dark  for  all  his  despair.  Let  him  go  ashore 
and  trust  to  the  security  of  his  own  house.  They 
had  yet  to  prove  the  charge,  yet  to  connect  him 
with  it.  He  was  a  clever  man  who  knew  how  to 
invent  a  story  and  to  stand  by  his  invention,  and 
this  he  would  do  when  the  occasion  arose.  To-day, 
for  instance,  being  the  Sabbath,  he  must  preach  to 
the  people  as  heretofore,  conduct  the  service  in  the 

171 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

little  chapel,  neglect  none  of  his  common  duties; 
and  he  fell  to  wondering-  what  his  text  would  be 
and  how  to  treat  it.  Could  he  not  appeal  to  their 
compassion — ay,  prepare  them  for  what  was  to 
come  and  engage  their  sympathy  ?  A  cunning  whis- 
per of  self-interest  mingled  curiously  with  an  un- 
feigning  regret  for  the  truth.  He  must  choose  a 
passage  from  the  Book  which  would  predispose  his 
fellows  to  deal  kindly  with  him  when  the  evil  day 
came — if  it  ever  came,  as  he  dared  now  to  hope  that 
it  might  not. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  made  the  harbor 
and  half  an  hour  later  when  he  arrived  at  the  farm. 
The  tide  did  not  serve  for  the  creek  he  used  habitu- 
ally, nor  was  it  safe  to  make  it  in  a  calm  because  of 
the  currents.  So  Japhon  went  up  through  the  vil- 
lage— where  few  were  abroad  or  even  awake  at 
such  an  hour  of  the  Sabbath  morn.  Jesse,  however, 
had  hardly  slept  a  wink  the  whole  night  through, 
and  she  came  down  to  the  gate  to  meet  him,  carry- 
ing John  Canning's  letter,  and  very  wistful  for  her 
father  to  read  it. 

"I  was  to  be  sure  to  give  it  you  yourself,  father 
— Mr.  Canning  told  me  particularly." 

He  looked  at  her,  impatient  at  the  interruption. 
"Did  he  speak  of  what  was  in  it,  girl?" 
"Not  a  word ;  but  I  could  see  he  was  upset." 
"Ah,  he  would  be ;  well,  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
172 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

about  that  presently.  Do  you  go  in  and  get  my 
breakfast,  for  I'm  fair  tired — nearly  twelve  hours 
crossing,  and  not  enough  wind  to  'dry  a  pocket 
handkerchief.  There  wouldn't  have  been  any  one 
here  while  I  was  gone?" 

"Not  any  one;  who  should  there  be?" 

"No  strangers  from  the  mainland,  nor  anybody 
like  that?" 

"No  one  at  all.  Mr.  Hobby  left  for  England  last 
night — he  went  across  in  Mr.  Canning's  new 
launch." 

"He  did — ay,  but  it  wouldn't  be  him — no,  no ;  get 
you  into  the  house,  for  I'm  fair  perishing  with  cold 
and  hunger." 

He  pushed  her  aside  and  entered  the  house  im- 
patiently. In  truth  suspicion  was  busy  once  more, 
and  troubled  him  with  many  thoughts.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  the  launch  he  had  passed  last  night 
was  John  Canning's  launch?  Had  this  fine  gentle- 
man from  England  been  the  informer  after  all  ?  A 
moment's  reflection  declared  the  thing  to  be  ridicu- 
lous. Jesse  was  upset  because  the  man  had  shown 
up  in  his  true  colors  after  reading  the  letter.  So 
much  the  better — he  would  be  easier  to  deal  with. 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  when  he  sat  at  a  well- 
spread  table,  and  the  dejected  girl  had  poured  him 
out  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee;  "well,  so  you  gave  Mr. 
Canning  the  letter?" 

173 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"You  know  that  I  did,  father — you  have  his  an- 
swer." 

"Ay,  ay,  but  the  answer  to  a  letter  don't  always 
say  as  much  as  the  hand  that  wrote  it.  I  reckon  he 
wouldn't  like  my  message;  did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"He  was  very  strange  and  cold.  He  seemed  to 
be  somebody  else  in  an  instant.  I  don't  think  he 
said  very  much  to  me — I  came  away  at  once." 

Japhon  raised  his  rugged  brows. 

"There  was  no  cause  to  do  that.  Perhaps  the 
matter  don't  concern  you  at  all.  You'll  be  going  up 
to  the  house  agen  come  morning.  I  wouldn't  stop 
away  if  I  were  you." 

"I  shall  go  when  Mr.  Canning  asks  me." 

"Oh,  he'll  do  that  quick  enough  by  all  account." 

He  laughed  a  little  coarsely,  and  for  some  while 
continued  to  watch  her  closely  while  he  ate.  She 
was  much  changed  these  two  days — had  lost  some 
of  her  good  color  and  all  her  high  spirits.  Well, 
the  man  should  bring  them  back  again. 

"I'll  be  going  up  to  the  Castle  belike  the  morn  to 
'see  John  Canning — there  may  be  a  word  about 
somebody  else.     Shall  I  answer  for  her  or  will  she 
speak  for  herself — when  I  think  fit?" 

"Oh,  father,  please " 

"What— I'm  to  hold  my  tongue?" 

"Yes,  yes.  I  will  never  see  Mr.  Canning  again  if 
you  do  not." 

174 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Perhaps  you'll  never  see  him  again  anyway  if  I 
choose  to  say  the  word.  I'm  thinking  upon  it  and 
what's  best  to  be  done.  Now,  do  you  go  and  get 
your  hat  on — it's  time  we  thought  of  chapel." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  He  finished  a  hearty 
breakfast,  and  having  clothed  himself  in  good 
broadcloth  and  an  ancient  beaver  hat,  set  off  for 
chapel — a  man  of  many  moods  and  of  few  resolu- 
tions. 


175 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  RESOLUTION  IS  RECONSIDERED 

THERE  had  been  a  church  upon  Bell  Island  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  but  it  fell  into  ruins  during  the 
sixteenth,  and  is  to-day  hardly  more  than  a  mound 
of  rubble  in  a  holy  acre.  Untroubled  by  creeds,  yet 
not  backward  in  the  sentiment  of  a  primitive  faith, 
the  people  worship  in  the  little  chapel  by  the  harbor 
and  are  content  with  its  humble  offices.  Sometimes 
a  stranger  will  come  from  the  mainland  to  preach 
to  them.  There  have  been  resident  ministers  from 
time  to  time,  but  none  has  remained  long  on  this 
lonely  isle,  where  bare  subsistence  is  not  always  a 
possibility,  and  a  missioner's  success  all  difficult  of 
attainment. 

Japhon  Fearney  never  regretted  the  lack  of  mis- 
sionary enterprise,  for  it  helped  his  own  power  and 
influence.  He  led  the  services  in  the  absence  of  any 
other,  and  spoke  to  the  people  when  no  preacher 
came  from  the  mainland.  On  this  particular  Sab- 
bath morn,  he  had  gone  down  to  the  chapel  pre- 
pared to  open  the  path  of  justification  for  himself, 
but  he  found  the  task  difficult  enough,  and  handled 

176 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

it  but  clumsily.  To  be  honest,  the  throne  of  his  own 
puny  majesty  had  never  seemed  to  him  more  de- 
sirable. He  spoke  to  the  simple  people  of  sin  and 
its  consequences,  of  the  need  of  personal  humility, 
of  the  danger  of  hasty  judgment,  and  of  the  due 
recognition  of  those  temptations  by  which  men  are 
assailed.  A  shrewd  hearer,  none  the  less,  would 
have  named  it  a  justification  of  much  that  was  done 
by  the  people  of  Bell  Island  in  defiance  of  his 
Majesty's  Customs — and  as  such,  both  Abe  Benson 
and  Tom  Weede  took  it  to  be,  when  they  came  out 
of  church  and  lurched  down  toward  the  "Jolly  Ad- 
miral"— just,  as  they  said,  to  see  if  the  wind  had 
shifted. 

"The  old  man  do  git  uncommon  rankeerous  as 
the  years  go  by,"  Abe  ventured;  to  which  Tom 
Weede,  a  melancholy  fisherman,  rejoined,  "  'Tis  the 
women,  Abe,  as  puts  gray  hairs  on  a  man's  head  for 
sure." 

"And  something  more  than  gray  hairs  on  their 
own,  if  my  son  Frank  speaks  true — ay,  queer  tales 
do  he  tell  of  the  girls  down  Bristol  way,  though 
I've  no  mind  to  be  listening  to  'em  at  my  age.  Will 
ye  have  a  glass  of  beer,  Tom — ye  look  precious 
poorly  this  mornin',  and  Japhon  he  be  no  man  to  put 
holiness  into  ye  gladly,  I  must  say?" 

Tom  Weede  agreed,  and  they  entered  the  parlor 
of  the  "Jo-lty  Admiral,"  where  others  of  the  island 

177 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

quickly  gathered.  Here,  to  the  general  astonish- 
ment, a  stranger  was  discovered — no  other  than 
our  old  friend  Benjamin  Crabbe,  who,  having  failed 
to  distinguish  himself  in  the  stables  at  Newmarket, 
had  found  his  way  to  Bell  Island,  to  see  what  was 
to  be  got  out  of  his  old  comrade  of  the  prisons, 
John  Canning.  Such  an  event  as  the  arrival  of  a 
stranger  on  the  Sabbath  had  not  happened  upon 
Bell  Island  three  times  in  as  many  years.  It  is  true 
that  officers  from  the  warships  occasionally  came 
ashore,  when  their  vessels  lay  at  anchor  under  the 
lea  of  the  island,  and  western  gales  raged  in  the 
ocean;  but  this  abnormal  product  of  an  unknown 
civilization,  this  begaitered,  horsy,  ferret-faced  little 
man,  he,  surely,  had  "escaped  out'er  some  'sylum," 
as  Tom  Weede  did  not  hesitate  to  say. 

To  give  him  his  due,  Mr.  Crabbe  spoke  of  his  old 
friend,  the  owner  of  the  Castle,  with  great  respect. 
Yes,  he  had  known  him  in  other  years — he  did  not 
say  where ;  but  he  might  declare  that  they  had  been 
closely  associated  in  many  an  undertaking,  and  that 
his  reception  at  the  Castle  would  be  a  friendly  one. 
If  he  hesitated  to  go  up  and  thought  it  better  to 
send  a  letter,  that  was  his  natural  delicacy. 

"A  man  is  like  a  horse,"  he  said ;  "come  up  to  him 
unawares  and  likely  he'll  kick  you.  But  say  'Gently, 
boy,'  and  hold  a  carrot  in  your  hand  and  there's  no 
kinder  creature  stabled." 

178 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Be  you  a-going  up  ter  the  Castle  wi*  a  carrot?" 
Tom  Weede  asked,  and  this  provoked  the  stranger 
to  great  merriment. 

"What  a  bloomin'  mug  you  are!"  he  said.  "My 
carrot  goes  in  an  envelope,  and  here  I  wait  for  the 
butler  to  show  me  in.  Now  drink  with  me,  mates, 
and  let  me  forget  that  I  am  a  stranger — although 
knowing  your  master  very  well." 

There  was  some  demur  at  this — the  bolder  spirits 
asking  who  was  their  master,  and  Abe  Benson  de- 
claring that  no  man  rightly  had  any  master  "on 
airth"  except  his  own  wife,  and  she  only  at  the 
proper  times  and  seasons.  When  order  was  re- 
stored and  the  stranger's  hospitality  had  softened 
the  company  toward  his  view,  a  groom  came  down 
from  the  Castle  with  an  answer  to  the  letter ;  and  at 
this  Mr.  Benjamin  Crabbe  plucked  up  his  spirit  won- 
derfully, and  immediately  drained  his  glass  as  a  pre- 
liminary to  an  early  departure. 

"Sir  John  is  a  gent,"  he  said ;  "let  me  see  the  man 
who  says  he  ain't.  Did  I  speak  truth  or  false  when 
I  said  he  would  be  glad  to  see  me — by  express, 
mates?  Well,  here's  the  answer  to  that — his  own 
'andwriting,  his  own  letter.  Oh,  I  knew  my  man — 
no  doubt  of  it — we  didn't  live  as  brothers  four  years 
together  for  him  to  stable  me  in  an  outhouse.  I 
thank  you  kindly,  mates,  and  good  day  to  you." 

He  cocked  a  shabby  bowler  hat  upon  the  side  of 
I7Q 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

a  jaunty  head,  and  followed  the  groom  to  the 
Castle.  It  was  six  o'clock  when  he  returned,  to  the 
great  satisfaction  of  a  little  group  down  by  the  har- 
bor, and  the  particular  pleasure  of  old  Abe  Benson, 
who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  drink  rum  with  him. 
Now  it  became  apparent  that  John  Canning's  hos- 
pitality had  been  altogether  too  much  for  the  volu- 
ble stranger.  He  talked  incessantly,  answered  ques- 
tions at  random,  fumed  at  the  closed  doors  of  the 
inn,  and  concluded  with  an  indiscretion  which  set 
Bell  Island  aflame.  And  this,  oddly  enough,  was 
provoked  by  the  question  of  that  usually  silent  fish- 
erman, Bill  Running,  who,  provoked  by  the  re- 
peated references  to  "Sir  John,"  at  length  ventured 
an  interrogation. 

"  'Sir  John,'  doo  'ee  say — then  he's  been  made  a 
barrernite." 

"No  baronet  at  all,  my  man.  We  called  him  Sir 
John  at  Portland,  and  a  better  fellow  never  carried 
the  broad  arrow,  so  help  me  Heaven." 

Some  one  laughed  foolishly  at  this — few  under- 
stood its  significance.  Perhaps,  had  not  that  shrewd 
person,  Frank  Benson,  chanced  to  be  on  the  pier 
wall  at  the  moment,  the  remark  would  have  spent 
itself  aimlessly  as  an  ill-timed  jest,  which  none  but 
a  stranger  in  his  cups  would  have  uttered.  Young 
Benson  possessed  a  quicker  perception.  This  man 
was  telling  a  tale  which  should  be  heard. 

180 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Here,  I  say,  are  you  speaking  of  Mr.  Canning?" 

"Of  who  else,  my  boy?" 

"Then  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  and  don't 
tell  your  lies  here." 

"Who  says  it's  a  lie?" 

"I  do.    You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"Look  here,  young  man ;  well,  wasn't  he  in  Port- 
land? Didn't  he  do  seven  years,  and  wasn't  he  'Sir 
John'  to  me  and  many?  Oh,  I'm  off  my  chump 
then — I'm  losing  my  blessed  eyesight.  And  he 
didn't  give  me  ten  pound  to-day  because  of  what's 
what.  One  of  the  best  mates,  one  of  the  best  that 
ever  got  into  the  saddle  to  ride  the  Seven  Year 
welter — I'd  like  to  see  the  man  who'd  tell  me  he 
ain't." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  John  Canning  has 
been  in  prison?" 

Benjamin  Crabbe  laughed  aloud. 

"Hark  at  him — and  the  noospapers  to  be  had  for 
a  blooming  ha'penny.  Has  he  been  in  prison  ?" 

He  appealed  to  the  company,  thinking  somebody 
surely  must  know.  Here  lay  the  secret  of  his  blind 
loquacity — he  thought  that  all  the  world  knew,  and 
John  Canning,  be  sure,  had  never  stooped  to  argle 
bargle  with  such  a  man  for  silence,  or  contemplated 
such  a  scene  as  this.  Sober,  Benjamin  Crabbe  could 
have  held  his  tongue — but  in  this  condition,  never. 

And  so  he  put  to  sea  at  last,  still  protesting  that 
181 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Sir  John  was  the  best  gentleman  in  the  world,  and 
that  the  days  he  spent  with  him  in  Portland  prison 
were  the  finest  in  his  life.  Those  on  shore  watched 
him  in  awe,  as  one  who  had  been  sent  providentially 
to  the  relief  of  Bell  Island  and  the  confusion  of  its 
tyrant.  Ingrates,  as  their  kind,  these  were  without 
a  spark  of  sympathy  either  for  the  man  or  his  in- 
tentions. Had  not  John  Canning  treated  them  with 
an  Englishman's  habitual  hauteur,  had  not  he  made 
much  of  their  evil  qualities  and  little  of  their  good? 
But  more  than  all,  and  first  in  their  thoughts,  had 
he  not  wished  to  ruin  them  by  his  schemes  for  har- 
bors and  docks,  and  Heaven  knew  what  new- 
fangled notions  beside?  Oh,  it  was  a  pretty  group 
which  gathered  at  the  door  of  the  "Jolly  Admiral" 
presently ! 

"And  him  nothing  but  a  jail-bird  arter  all,"  said 
old  Abe  Benson,  spitting  in  contempt.  "Well, 
mates,  we  might  ha'  knowed  that  no  gentleman 
would  ha'  thought  o'  such  things  as  he  thought  on." 

"And  playing  puss  in  the  cove  with  old  Japhon's 
darter — fine  she'd  look  along  wi'  such  as  'ee,  mates. 
That  be  a  pretty  match  for  the  old  man  to  be  taken 
on.  Ay,  old  Japhon  will  be  mighty  pleased  to  hear 
this."  ' 

"It's  my  opinion,"  said  Bill  Hunning  slowly, 
"that  we'll  have  to  be  after  locking  up  our  windys 


182 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

at  nights.  He'll  have  learned  a  trick  or  two  down 
Portland  way,  and  wantin'  to  practice  may  be." 

"And  him  for  makin'  the  new  harbor  to  rob  hon- 
est men  of  their  rights.  Let  me  hear  o'  this  again 
and  I'll  have  my  answer.  Ay,  mates,  will  you  be 
put  upon  by  a  jail-bird?  Be  jowned  to  his  impu- 
dence !" 

"What's  best  for  'ee,"  interjected  Tom  Weede, 
"is  to  get  into  his  hummin'-top  of  a  boat  and  get 
him  back  wheer  he  come  from.  We  was  honest  folk 
afore  he  landed,  mates,  and  if  we  hev  done  a  bit  of 
spirits  and  bacca,  well,  I  take  leave  to  say  it  was 
gentlemen's  empliyment.  But  this  'ere — this  is  vul- 
gar, I  will  say." 

"What  I  like  fine,"  said  Abe  Benson,  "was  him 
a-buildin'  of  a  church.  Now,  that  there,  mates,  was 
wholly  colossal.  A  church — damme,  he'll  be 
preachin'  to  us  next." 

They  laughed  heartily  at  this,  and  the  dark  found 
them  still  merry  and  excited.  Be  sure  that  every 
grown  woman  on  Bell  Island  had  the  news  before 
her  first  sleep  that  night,  and  that  a  willing  tongue 
carried  it  also  to  Japhon  Fearney's  house.  Frank 
Benson,  in  truth,  went  up  to  the  farm  in  a  state  of 
voluble  ecstasy  quite  foreign  to  him.  For  days  past 
he  had  known  the  truth  about  Jesse  and  the  Eng- 
lishman, and  his  mild  devotion  toward  Japhon 


183 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Fearney's  daughter  had  become  almost  an  obses- 
sion of  mad  jealousy,  which  would  have  worked  any 
mischief  but  for  the  craven  will  behind  it.  And 
now  this  weapon  was  in  his  hands — this  surprising 
truth — this  missile  which  should  destroy  in  an  in- 
stant the  house  of  his  enemy's  hopes. 

Japhon  received  him  very  coldly.  He  had  not  an 
idea  why  he  came,  and  thought  for  an  instant  that 
it  might  be  to  propose  for  Jesse — a  piece  of  inso- 
lence the  old  man  would  have  been  quite  capable  of 
punishing.  When  he  heard  the  truth,  blurted  out 
between  wild  gestures  and  loud  exclamations,  he 
also  realized  in  an  instant  that  the  whole  fabric  of 
his  building  had  come  tumbling  to  the  ground,  and 
that  nothing  but  a  volte-face,  absolute,  and  imme- 
diate, could  save  his  reputation  and  that  of  his 
daughter. 

"Be  careful  what  you  are  saying,  Benson,"  he 
said,  the  judicial  manner  prevailing  above  his  curi- 
osity; "this  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  talk  about;  the 
law  may  have  something  to  say  to  those  who  do  not 
hold  their  tongues.  He  was  in  prison,  you  say ;  ah, 
but  how  do  you  know  it's  true  ?" 

"We  can  prove  it,  sir.  The  man  looked  just  like 
a  criminal  himself — he  told  everybody — he  said  it 
was  in  the  newspapers.  If  it  wasn't,  we  can  soon 
find  out ;  but  I'll  send  over  to  a  friend  in  Barnstaple 
to-morrow  to  make  sure." 

184 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"You  send  over !    What's  it  to  do  with  you  ?" 

"Oh,  but  I  thought  it  had  to  do  with  us  all — a 
jail-bird  at  the  Castle." 

"Do  you  visit  there,  then?" 

"I!  Oh,  I've  been  up.  But  I  was  thinking  of 
Jesse." 

"Leave  my  daughter's  name  out  of  it.  I'll  take 
good  care  of  her." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  I  came;  but  I  thought  it  my 
duty." 

"Duty!  That's  every  man's  cant  when  he  wants 
to  do  his  neighbor  an  injury.  Suppose  this  gentle- 
man has  met  with  misfortune — what  right  have  you 
to  judge  him?" 

"I  don't  judge  him,  I'm  leaving  you  to  do  that, 
sir;  and  some  of  us  don't  call  a  man  a  gentleman 
when  he's  been  in  prison." 

"Some  of  you  deserve  to  go  to  prison  for  calling 
yourselves  gentlemen — that's  the  truth.  Take  a 
word  from  me  and  keep  your  mouth  shut.  This  is 
no  news  for  common  folk." 

"Oh,  but  they  know  already.  I  don't  suppose 
there's  a  man  or  a  woman  either  who  doesn't  know. 
It'll  be  all  the  talk  to-morrow." 

"Ay.  they've  precious  little  to  do  but  talk  in  this 
place.  You  yourself  now — do  I  hear  that  you've 
found  employment  ?  Daisy-cutting  on  the  cliff  head 
doesn't  butter  any  bread.  You'll  be  wanting  some 

185 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

young  woman  to  marry  you  by  and  by,  I  suppose. 
Isn't  it  time  you  learned  to  do  an  honest  day's 
work?" 

Frank  Benson  colored  to  his  eyes,  but  with  rage 
and  chagrin  rather  than  with  shame. 

"You  forget,  Mr.  Fearney — my  occupation  is 
literature." 

"Well,  you'd  be  a  better  man  in  my  eyes  if  I  saw 
you  with  a  hay  fork  in  your  hand.  Poetry  don't 
feed  no  woman's  bairns.  The  girl  you  marry  will 
want  something  more  than  that  stuff  on  Saturdays, 
and  who's  to  be  earning  it  ?  Seek  out  an  honest  oc- 
cupation— folks'll  think  no  worse  of  you." 

The  young  man  rose  in  high  dudgeon. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  said  coldly; 
"when  I  want  your  advice  I  will  come  for  it.  I 
am  sorry  I  came  at  all." 

"Don't  mention  it.  I'm  always  pleased  to  see 
young  men  and  to  have  a  talk  with  them.  I  was 
young  once  myself — though,  thank  God,  no  man 
ever  gave  me  an  education.  I've  got  on  very  well 
without  the  poetry  for  a  good  many  years,  my  lad, 
and  mebbe  I'll  finish  the  same  way.  Good  night  to 
ye — I  was  sorry  to  miss  your  father  at  the  chapel 
this  night.  Is  he  took  with  poetry  also?  Well,  it's 
a  rare  misfortune  surely." 

Frank  had  nothing  more  to  say,  and  they  sep- 
arated upon  a  commonplace.  It  was  now  about  nine 

186 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

o'clock,  and  Jesse  came  in  to  lay  the  supper.  She 
was  still  very  reserved  and  shy  before  her  father, 
and  Frank  Benson's  visit  had  not  reassured  her.  As 
for  Japhon,  he  watched  her  anxiously,  wondering 
in  what  way  he  should  break  the  news,  as  break  it 
he  must.  That  this  story  had  got  about  the  island 
angered  him  more  than  he  would  have  admitted  to 
any  man.  For  very  shame  now,  nay,  for  the  protec- 
tion of  his  own  reputation,  he  must  forbid  Jesse  to 
visit  the  Castle  or  have  anything  to  do  with  its  mas- 
ter. Secrecy  might  have  permitted  what  the  known 
fact  would  not.  He  could  never  allow  it  to  be  said 
that  he  contemplated  with  equanimity  the  union  of 
his  daughter  with  a  man  who  stood  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  for  a  convicted  felon. 

"Jesse,  my  lass,"  he  said  at  last,  and  in  a  kindly 
tone  which  won  her  interest,  "you  carried  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Canning  for  me  yesterday." 

"Yes,  father." 

"And  he  told  you  nothing  of  what  was  inside  of 
it?" 

"No,  father." 

"Then  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear.  It's  not  a  nice 
thing  to  talk  about,  and  I  do  so  unwillingly,  but 
the  truth's  the  truth,  and  deceit  won't  keep  it  from 
coming  out.  Now  read  that  for  yourself,  and  tell 
me  what  you  make  of  it." 

She  took  the  letter  from  his  hand,  and  placed  a 
187 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

candle  so  that  she  might  have  light  to  read  it.  No 
child  could  have  mistaken  either  the  question  or  the 
answer — and  yet  she  must  dwell  upon  them,  going 
over  the  lines  one  by  one  and  asking  herself  many 
times  if  she  read  aright. 

When  she  returned  the  paper  to  her  father,  her 
face  was  quite  white  and  expressionless,  and  she 
feared  almost  to  breathe  lest  she  should  break  the 
spell  and  burst  into  tears. 

"What  does  it  mean,  father  ?    What  is  it  ?" 

"A  very  sad  story,  my  dear.  John  Canning,  it 
appears,  didn't  come  among  us  with  clean  hands. 
He  had  soiled  them  in  London  years  ago — he's  been 
in  prison,  Jesse,  for  cheating — that's  what's  the 
matter." 

"I'll  never  believe  it,  father — never,  never." 

"Why,  all  of  us  might  say  the  same,  Jesse;  and 
what  good's  served  by  it?  We  didn't  send  him 
there — it  wasn't  our  faults." 

"Oh,  but  it's  an  untruth — a  wicked  untruth.  I'll 
go  to  him." 

"Not  so  fast,  my  girl.  That  it's  no  lie  I've  known 
some  days,  as  my  letter  tells  you.  Why,  Holly 
Angus  told  me  the  first  day  Canning  came  here. 
'You've  got  a  convict  over  at  the  island,'  he  said; 
and  I  wouldn't  hear  him.  It  was  kind  to  do  that — 
we  owe  it  to  our  fellow  creatures  to  give  scandal 
the  cold  shoulder  when  we  can — and  that's  what  I 

188 


FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

said  to  Angus.  'Belike  you're  mistaken,'  I  said; 
and  then  he  sent  to  London  for  the  newspapers,  and 
there  it  was  for  all  the  world  to  read.  So  I  wrote 
to  Mr.  Canning  himself,  and  you  see  what  kind  of 
an  answer  we  get.  Well,  it's  better  so — better  that 
we  should  know  it  now  than  afterward,  when  we 
might  have  been  tarred  with  that  brush  ourselves. 
What  we  can  do  we  will  do — but  it  will  be  precious 
little  among  such  a  lot  of  clucking  hens  as  you'll 
find  on  Bell  Island.  Now  go  to  your  bed,  my  dear, 
and  think  no  more  of  it.  We  shan't  be  unkind  to 
Mr.  Canning — but  the  less  we  see  of  him  the  bet- 
ter, and  that's  charity  to  say.  There'll  be  no  more 
going  to  the  Castle,  of  course — that  I  must  insist 
upon  to  begin  with." 

She  looked  up,  frightened  and  doubting. 

"But,  father " 

"I  say  it,  and  I  mean  it.  My  daughter  has  no 
place  in  that  house." 

"No  place  in  Mr.  Canning's  house " 

"Nor  any  title  to  be  seen  talking  to  him  in  public. 
That's  my  last  word  on  it,  Jesse.  You  know 
whether  I  am  to  be  obeyed  or  not." 

There  was  a  menace  in  the  tone,  and  she  turned 
away  at  it  and  quitted  the  room,  with  a  step  so  soft, 
and  a  face  so  white  and  drawn,  that  all  the  pathos 
of  her  womanhood  should  have  spoken  eloquently 
to  him  and  won  upon  his  pity.  They  did  not  do  so. 

189 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

He  said  that  he  might  yet  profit  by  John  Can- 
ning's misfortune — but  Jesse,  never.  That  chapter 
of  his  schemes  was  finished  and  never  would  be  re- 
opened. 


190 


THE  FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XX 

JESSE   REVISITS   THE   CASTLE 

JAPHON  had  believed  that  the  chapter  would 
never  be  reopened;  but  here  he  reckoned  without  a 
woman's  unshaken  faith  and  the  courage  begotten 
of  it.  Jesse,  in  truth,  had  made  up  her  mind  from 
the  first  moment  of  it  to  go  to  Canning  and  to  hear 
the  story  from  his  own  lips.  So  much  she  owed 
both  to  herself  and  to  him — nor  could  her  overmas- 
tering desire  tolerate  even  such  a  delay  as  the  con- 
ventions would  dictate.  She  must  go  at  once,  she 
said — the  night  had  never  seemed  to  her  so  long. 

And  what  a  night  of  silent  thought  and  sorrow  it 
was ! — a  night  spent  at  her  bedroom  window,  whence 
she  could  look  over  the  moonlit  sea  by  which  John 
Canning  had  come  to  Bell  Island.  How  she  feared 
for  him,  hoped  for  him,  pitied  him!  Tempted  by 
the  letter  to  be  indulgent  toward  her  father's  hasty 
judgment,  her  own  remained  unshaken.  Not  a 
thousand  affirmations  would  convince  her  of  John 
Canning's  guilt,  or  permit  her  to  believe  that  he 
had  done  any  man  a  wrong.  A  trick,  she  said,  an 

191 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

enemy's  device,  an  affair  above  the  common  under- 
standing of  these  simple  folk  who  dwell  upon  the 
island. 

And  so  she  set  out  very  early  in  the  morning, 
clad  in  no  fine  gown  of  muslin,  nor  obedient  to  any 
prompting  of  her  vanity;  but  just  the  little  Jesse 
who  had  been  surprised  in  the  Long  Gallery  a  few 
short  weeks  ago,  and  never  would  be  surprised 
there  again  until  her  life's  end.  To  old  Martin  at 
the  gate  she  professed  an  affair  of  urgency.  Let 
the  hour  be  what  it  might,  she  must  see  the  master 
of  the  Castle  and  see  him  alone.  To  which  the  old 
servitor  responded  by  a  glance  at  her  naked  feet,  at 
her  black  hair  tossed  angrily  about  her  shoulders, 
and  the  plain  woolen  shawl  which  hid  her  wan 
white  face — and  being  properly  astonished,  could 
but  venture  a  commonplace. 

"Be  you  daft,  girl,  or  what?  Do  you  know  it's 
not  gone  seven  of  the  morning?" 

"I  care  not  what  time  it  is — I  must  see  him.  Oh, 
go  at  once,  Martin — he  will  never  forgive  you  if 
you  do  not." 

"Be  your  father  ailing " 

"Oh,  go,  go,"  she  cried,  and  stamping  her  foot 
she  drove  him  headlong. 

Now,  John  Canning  had  slept  no  better  than  Jesse, 
and  the  letter  had  answered  for  his  vigil  also.  That 
old  Japhon  Fearney  possessed  his  secret  was  of  it- 

192 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

self  a  small  affair — he  did  not  care  twopence  for 
any  man's  opinion — but  that  the  story  should  be 
told  to  Jesse  by  others  was  the  graver  matter.  He 
could  blame  himself  readily  enough  now  for  his 
own  cowardice,  and  ask  how  it  had  served  him. 
Perhaps,  a  deeper  thought  was  one  which  hinted 
at  the  truth,  speaking  of  Japhon's  darker  schemes 
and  of  the  part  Jesse  might  be  compelled  to  play  in 
them.  "He  will  sell  her  to  me,"  Canning  thought; 
"promise  to  hold  his  tongue  if  I  make  it  worth  his 
while,  and  guard  the  menace  against  his  own  neces- 
sity. He  is  rascal  enough,  if  young  Irwin  Benson 
is  to  be  believed." 

Here,  then,  came  Temptation — parti-colored  and 
a  sorry  bedfellow.  Canning  knew  that  he  loved 
Jesse,  but  the  depth  of  his  love  for  her  had  not  yet 
been  probed.  If  he  consented  to  be  Japhon  Kear- 
ney's instrument,  he  doubted  not  that  he  might 
marry  her  to-morrow,  make  her  the  mistress  of  the 
Castle  and  the  servant  of  his  desires.  But  he  knew 
that  he  would  never  consent,  that  his  dominant  will 
would  find  such  a  burden  intolerable,  and  that  the 
child  must  share  the  consequences  of  his  refusal. 
Indeed,  a  supreme  contempt  for  the  man  and  his 
methods  was  more  in  his  thoughts  even  than  his 
love  for  Jesse.  Intolerable  that  he  should  be  dic- 
tated to  by  this  miserly  farmer  who,  for  aught  he 
knew  to  the  contrary,  might  be  a  very  criminal — 

193 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

ay,  intolerable,  but  inevitable,  for  such  was  the  pen- 
alty of  the  downfall. 

Upon  such  thoughts  as  these  came  Jesse  to  the 
Castle,  and  be  sure  no  door  was  barred  against  her. 
Old  Martin  could  not  believe  his  ears  when  he  was 
told  to  show  Miss  Fearney  up  immediately;  the 
valet-de-chambre  grinned  like  a  babboon,  and  re- 
flected with  what  additions  he  could  retell  the  story 
in  the  meaner  streets  by  Piccadilly.  But  Jesse  came 
up  nevertheless,  and  being  conducted  immediately 
to  the  Long  Gallery,  she  found  Canning  awaiting 
her  and  at  once  declared  the  purport  of  her  visit. 

"Mr.  Canning,"  she  said  quietly,  "I  thought  that 
I  must  come  to  see  you — I  have  something  very  im- 
portant to  say." 

"About  the  letter  you  took  to  your  father  yester- 
day?" 

"Yes,  it  is  about  that.  My  father  came  home  yes- 
terday morning — he  had  a  long  passage,  he  could 
not  make  the  harbor  before.  I  gave  him  your  let- 
ter and  he  read  it.  Then,  later  on  last  night,  we 
had  a  visit  from  Frank  Benson.  Mr.  Canning — 
they  know — the  island  knows;  is  it  right  that  I, 
Jesse,  should  be  the  last  to  hear  it?" 

"To  hear  what,  Jesse?" 

"The  truth,  Mr.  Canning — the  truth,  which  is 
every  woman's  due  when  she  has  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve that  a  man  loves  her " 

194 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"But,  Jesse " 

"You  kept  it  from  me,  Mr.  Canning.  Even  when 
you  had  the  letter  in  your  hand  you  said  nothing 
to  me.  Oh,  you  might  have  spoken — that  would 
have  been  kind  to  me.  But  you  were  silent — you 
were  afraid  to  trust  me.  And  now  the  people 
know — I  shall  be  ashamed  to  go  among  them — they 
will  point  the  finger  at  me  everywhere.  Oh,  Mr. 
Canning — was  that  kind?" 

She  had  never  shown  weakness  before  him  hith- 
erto, but  the  pathos  of  it  mastered  her  now,  and  she 
sank  into  a  chair  sobbing  bitterly.  As  for  Canning, 
the  wickedness  of  his  own  silence  could  no  longer 
be  denied.  What  a  pitiful  coward  he  had  been! 
What  a  price  to  put  upon  his  own  self-esteem — the 
price  of  this  child's  love  and  confidence!  And  he 
had  bartered  it  deliberately,  thrown  honor  into  the 
scale  that  he  might  purchase  a  few  hours  of  make- 
believe,  and  ride  high  upon  that  proud  horse  which 
was  the  White  Knight's  due.  Oh,  folly  surely  and 
irreparable ! 

"Jesse,"  he  said,  crossing  the  gallery  to  her  side 
and  kneeling  there,  "I  was  wrong  not  to  tell  you. 
But  I  wanted  you  to  think  well  of  me — I  could  not 
abase  myself  in  your  eyes.  Jesse — do  you  not  un- 
derstand ?" 

She  trembled  at  his  touch,  but  knew,  none  the 
less,  that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

195 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"It  is  true  then?"  she  said;  "the  story  is  true?" 

"It  is  quite  true,  Jesse." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  I'll  not  believe  it — tell  me,  for  pity's 
sake — it  is  not  true." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  began  to  speak  to  her 
in  a  low  voice.  Never  before  had  he  spoken  to  any 
human  being  as  he  spoke  to  Jesse  Fearney  in  that 
hour.  And  first  of  his  school  days,  of  their  many 
successes  both  at  work  and  play;  his  proud  ambi- 
tions even  as  a  lad;  of  his  Cambridge  days  and  a 
father's  sacrifice  which  sent  him  there;  of  his  early 
knowledge  that  brains  must  count  in  the  end,  and 
were  the  most  potent  weapons  of  success  whatever 
the  armor  of  birth  and  station.  He  would  have 
been  a  lazy  youth,  he  declared,  but  for  the  spur  of 
ambition,  driving  him  ever  to  unknown  heights,  and 
flattering  him  to  unceasing  labors.  When  he  left 
Cambridge,  it  was  not  to  dream  of  success,  but  to 
attain  it.  He  tried  to  tell  this  mere  child  what  the 
flotation  of  companies  was;  how  money  was  ob- 
tained from  many  for  the  benefit  of  many ;  how  real 
were  the  risks  and  how  grave  the  responsibilities. 

"I  tried  to  do  too  much,  Jesse.  If  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  half  my  aims,  the  City  would  have  called 
me  a  great  financier.  Others  in  London  are  doing 
every  day  what  I  did  once,  and  being  honored  for 
it.  Some  of  them  are  knighted  by  the  King;  others 
are  made  members  of  Parliament — society  ogens  its 

196 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

arms  to  them;  the  aristocracy  borrows  money  of 
them.  If  they  fail,  some  trumpery  charge  is  pre- 
ferred against  them  and  they  go  to  prison — to  sat- 
isfy the  vengeance  of  those  who  have  lost.  In  the 
old  days,  when  people  put  their  money  into  a  com- 
pany, they  well  understood  that  it  was  a  specula- 
tion and  that  they  might  lose  it.  Now,  they  expect 
all  companies  to  succeed,  and  if  they  do  not  suc- 
ceed, they  talk  about  prosecuting  the  directors. 
Well,  I  was  one  of  those  directors,  and  they  prose- 
cuted me  because  I  was  young  and  had  been  too 
successful.  A  misunderstanding  about  the  trans- 
ference of  some  shares — but  you  would  never  un- 
derstand that — gave  my  enemies  their  opportunity. 
I  -was  badly  defended  by  a  man  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  intricacies  of  finance,  and  the  Law  con- 
demned me.  It  condemned  me,  not  for  dishonesty, 
but  for  misfortune — as  many  a  man  has  been  and 
will  be  condemned,  Jesse,  in  that  strange  place  they 
call  the  City  of  London." 

He  ceased  abruptly,  conscious,  perhaps,  of  the 
futility  of  such  a  narration  as  this  to  such  a  child. 
But  here  he  did  less  than  justice  to  Jesse  Fearney, 
who,  if  she  did  not  understand  him  wholly,  could 
at  least  say  that  the  truth  was  as  she  believed  it  to 
be.  John  Canning  had  done  no  man  any  wrong. 
Her  womanly  sympathies  made  of  him  in  this  dark 
hour  a  greater  hero  than  any  that  ever  rode  a  proud 

197 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

white  horse  in  any  knightly  company.  Gladly  would 
she  have  turned  and  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  that 
he  might  have  taken  her  to  his  heart,  there  to  make 
her  sweet  confession.  But  the  very  sorrow  of  his 
words  forbade  this  thought  of  self.  He  had  spoken 
to  her  as  a  grown  woman,  and  so  she  would  answer 
him. 

"I  could  not  sleep  last  night  for  thinking  of  all 
this,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Mr.  Canning,  why  did  you 
not  go  to  my  father  and  speak  to  him  as  you  have 
spoken  to  me?  He  is  a  hard  man,  but  a  just  man 
— he  would  never  have  misjudged  you.  I  am  a 
woman,  and  cannot  hope  to  make  men  understand." 

"Is  it  anything  to  me,  Jesse,  while  you  yourself 
understand  ?" 

"I  came  for  that,"  she  said  proudly.  "I  came 
because  I  knew  the  story  was  false.  My  father  for- 
bade me  to  come,  but  I  did  not  heed  him.  And 
now  I  shall  go  and  tell  them  all.  They  shall  do 
you  justice  here — I  will  compel  them." 

"Can  you  compel  people  to  disbelieve  what  it 
pleases  them  to  consider  true?  No,  no,  Jesse,  you 
will  say  nothing  at  all  about  it.  I  have  spoken  to 
you  because  it  was  right  that  I  should  speak.  If 
your  father  forbids  you  to  come  to  my  house,  then 
we  must  obey  him." 

She  looked  at  him — her  eyes  wide  open  in  aston- 


198 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

ishment,  her  heart  beating  quickly.     Was  he  not 
glad,  then,  that  she  had  come? 

"He  forbids  me  because  he  does  not  understand 
Was  not  your  own  letter  to  blame  for  that?    Oh, 
Mr.   Canning,  you  did  not  wish  him  to  think  it 
true?" 

"I  wish  him  to  form  such  a  judgment  of  my  char- 
acter as  his  knowledge  of  me  prompts.  Consider, 
Jesse ;  can  I  go  to  him  upon  my  knees,  imploring  his 
better  judgment  ?  Would  you  go  in  my  place  ?  And 
is  he  not  right  when  he  says  that  I  am  wrong  to  let 
you  come  here?  Consider,  the  world  has  the  right 
to  point  the  finger  at  me.  I  have  failed,  and  every 
rogue  who  has  not  failed  struts  it  proudly  and  cries, 
'Here  is  a  villain!'  If  you  and  I  were  to  continue 
friends,  the  same  would  be  said  of  you.  'She  is  the 
friend  of  a  rogue,'  they  would  say,  'of  a  man  who 
has  been  in  penal  servitude.'  Now,  how  can  I  al- 
low them  to  say  that  ?  How  can  I  permit  it  ?  Is  not 
your  father  right  after  all?  But,  Jesse,  you  know 
what  it  means  to  me  to  say  as  much,  you  know  what 
our  friendship  has  been — you  will  not  misunder- 
stand?" 

She  stood  quite  still,  a  hand  pressed  to  her  breast, 
her  eyes  staring  wildly  into  the  void.  This  was  her 
banishment.  John  Canning  was  sending  her  away. 

"Of  course — if  you  think " 


199 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  think  of  nothing  but  your  happiness,  Jesse.  It 
is  the  one  thing  I  would  give  all  the  world  to 
achieve." 

"And  you  wish  me  never  to  come  here  again,  Mr. 
Canning?" 

"While  your  father  forbids  you,  yes — for  both 
our  sakes.  Oh,  Jesse,  Jesse,  is  not  this  a  hard  thing 
to  say?" 

"I  will  try  to  understand  you,  Mr.  Canning.  If 
I  cannot  do  so  at  present,  it  is  because  I  am  not 
clever  enough  to  know  why  a  man  refuses  to  be- 
lieve what  a  girl  has  told  him  when  she  has  spoken 
with  all  her  heart.  Oh,  I  shall  never  come — please 
don't  think  it.  I  shall  go  away  at  once  as  you  wish 
me  to,  Mr.  Canning — I  am  sorry  that  I  came  at  all." 

He  knew  not  what  to  answer  her.  A  moment  of 
weakness  would  have  undone  them  both  and  sent 
her  sobbing  to  his  arms.  But  now  he  understood 
that  even  friendship  with  Fearney's  daughter  must 
be  denied  to  him,  and  that  his  very  honor  as  a  man 
depended  upon  his  courage.  Yes,  he  must  let  her 
go — the  one  friend  among  women  whom  he  had 
ever  known. 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  fact  that  you  came, 
Jesse,"  he  said  quietly ;  "this  day  will  be  remembered 
by  me  to  my  life's  end.  And  I  shall  not  cease  to 
hope — oh,  God  knows,  that  is  never  denied  to  us !  I 
shall  always  hope  that  you  will  come  back  to  me — 

200 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

that  your  father  will  send  you,  and  that  I  shall  have 
the  right  to  receive  you — in  my  house — as  the 
woman  I  love  more  than  anything  on  earth.  Jesse, 
you  will  not  forbid  me  to  hope  that?" 

She  shook  her  head — the  tears  forbade  her  to 
speak — and  for  a  little  while  there  was  silence.  All 
that  she  had  meant  to  say  to  him,  the  warm  ex- 
pression of  her  unshaken  faith,  the  protest  of  her 
love,  went  unspoken  before  this  unexpected  attitude, 
this  surprising  submission  to  her  father's  will.  She 
knew  now  that  she  had  come  to  say  "Good-by" — 
and  she  said  it,  offering  her  hand  as  she  would  have 
offered  it  to  any  stranger,  but  turning  quickly  that 
he  might  not  see  her  shame. 

"You  told  me  once  to  remember,"  she  said 
quickly;  and  then,  "Oh,  Mr.  Canning,  I  shall  never 
forget."  - 

'-*~l* 


2O I 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE     FIRST     STONE 

CANNING  had  been  over  to  the  mainland  twice 
since  he  established  his  home  upon  Bell  Island ;  nor 
could  the  solicitation  of  his  few  friends  turn  him 
from  his  purpose  to  withdraw,  for  the  time  being  at 
any  rate,  from  a  world  which  had  treated  him  so  ill. 

Let  it  be  confessed  that  he  was  the  visionary  no 
longer;  all  his  fine  schemes  of  a  dominion  over  a 
simple  people  had  long  since  been  scattered  before 
the  winds  of  a  somewhat  vulgar  reality.  These 
island  folk,  he  had  come  to  see,  were  in  no  way  dif- 
ferent from  their  brothers  and  sisters  of  the  city  he 
had  left — had  no  greater  charity  nor  any  exclusive 
possession  of  the  elementary  virtues.  He  found 
them  immoral,  selfish,  and  not  a  little  disposed  to 
be  insolent.  His  desire  to  befriend  them  had  been 
received  coldly  or  with  outspoken  opposition.  That 
Eldorado  he  would  have  founded  stood  now  for  an 
unattainable  kingdom.  He  was  merely  the  owner 
of  the  Castle — and  these  men  were  the  churls  who 
would  thwart  him. 

202 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Such  had  been  the  state  of  affairs  before  Dis- 
covery stalked  the  island,  and  brought  him  to  a  new 
understanding  of  his  position  and  its  consequences. 
Alone  in  his  beautiful  gardens,  whose  terraces  were 
so  many  cascades  of  flowers  falling  to  the  danger- 
ous beach  below,  he  could  ask  himself,  when  Jesse 
had  left  him,  if  it  were  possible  to  continue  in  this 
place  at  all,  or  if  fatality  must  drive  him,  hence. 
The  very  beauty  of  the  house,  its  proud  position  as 
some  fortress  of  an  island  kingdom,  mocked  his 
hopes  and  derided  his  intentions.  For  what  friend 
would  visit  this  citadel  ?  Who  would  share  its  beau- 
ties with  him?  What  solace  would  be  found  in  its 
possession?  In  Paris,  in  New  York,  in  Buenos 
Ayres  he  might  start  de  novo,  his  fortune  helping 
him,  his  brains  re-establishing  that  authority  for 
which  he  craved  and  of  which  punishment  had  de- 
prived him.  But  here — on  the  rocky  heights,  with 
the  wide  sea  all  about  him  and  the  eternal  solitude 
— what  should  a  man  achieve  here  and  what  impulse 
of  folly  had  dictated  such  a  purchase? 

Candor,  be  it  admitted,  would  have  answered  this 
impatience  very  readily.  John  Canning  had  come  to 
Bell  Island  as  a  protest  against  the  baseness  of  his 
aforetime  friends,  and  as  an  affirmation  of  his  reso- 
lution to  triumph  in  spite  of  them.  Here  he  had 
hoped  to  rest  a  while;  to  establish  himself  in  the 
hearts  of  a  simple  people;  to  found  a  contented  col- 

203 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

ony ;  to  teach  all  the  world  that  his  old  abilities  had 
not  deserted  him.  And  in  lieu  of  these  things  he 
had  found,  what?  A  pretty  face,  a  pair  of  wistful 
eyes — a  little  peasant  girl  who  climbed  to  the 
heights  barefooted,  and  had  just  promised  him  not 
to  forget. 

She  would  not  forget — this  little  girl  of  the  raven 
locks — she  would  remember.  In  her  he  had  an  ad- 
vocate against  a  score  of  frowsy  fishermen  who 
knew  that  he  had  been  in  prison.  Pitiful  in  truth 
— grotesque  in  its  humiliations — and  yet  the  truth. 
And  for  her  sake  he  could  contemplate  further  resi- 
dence upon  the  island,  a  new  determination  to  win 
the  affections  of  its  people,  a  firm  intention  to  teach 
them  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was.  Thus  Candor  in 
the  garden — which  he  paced  alone  through  the 
weary  morning,  and  did  not  quit  until  the  clock 
struck  four.  When  he  left  it  at  last,  an  idea  had 
come  to  him  that  he  would  ride  out  and  learn  the 
truth  for  himself. 

Ay,  what  a  knight  then  went  forth,  and  yet  how 
simple-minded  a  man,  seeking  here  in  this  lonely 
hamlet  just  that  very  sympathy  which  London  had 
denied  to  him!  Canning  would  have  laughed  in 
the  face  of  any  man  who  had  told  him  that  he  was 
anxious  to  know  what  old  Abe  Benson  thought 
about  it — or  Bill  Running,  or  Tom  Weede — to  say 
nothing  of  Japhon  Fearney.  Yet  such  was  the 

204 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

truth — he  must  know.  Vanity  rode  as  surely  down 
the  lanes  of  Bell  Island  as  it  had  stalked  the  purlieus 
of  Threadneedle  Street.  He  must  know;  he  must 
hear  the  people  for  himself. 

He  crossed  the  downs  and  sought  the  old  farmer 
first.  Japhon  was  in  the  rickyard  when  his  visitor 
rode  up,  but  he  came  out  immediately  and  received 
him  at  the  gate,  not  insolently,  but  with  the  plain  in- 
timation that  what  was  to  be  said  were  better  said 
in  the  open. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Canning — I  was  not  look- 
ing to  see  you  here." 

"I  suppose  not — I  came  to  speak  about  the  letter 
— you  received  mine,  Miss  Jesse  tells  me." 

"Ay,  and  precious  sorry  I  was  to  get  it.  This  is 
bad  news  for  all  of  us,  Mr.  Canning." 

"I  can  well  imagine  it — -you  are  concerned  for 
my  welfare,  no  doubt." 

"God  forbid  that  I  should  judge  any  man;  but 
we  must  take  things  as  they  are.  This  is  a  simple 
place  and  does  not  understand  great  matters.  I 
wish  I  knew  what  to  say  to  the  people — but  I  don't. 
They'll  not  take  it  kindly,  I  fear." 

"Ah,  it  would  never  do  not  to  consider  the  peo- 
ple." 

"Just  so — and  I  must  consider  my  daughter's 
good  name.  You  won't  be  asking  her  to  your  house 
or  anything  of  that  kind — not  at  present?" 

205 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Why  do  you  qualify  it?  Is  the  future  to  make  a 
difference  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  shrewdly  beneath  his 
pursed  brows. 

"I  don't  say  that  it  mightn't — that  depends  upon 
you.  Win  folks'  kindly  nature  and  they'll  stand  by 
you.  It'll  take  a  long  time  and  mean  some  humble- 
ness, but  it  can  be  done.  There's  a  deeper  story 
than  any  you've  told  me.  I'll  help  you  with  it  if 
you'll  give  me  the  chance." 

"That's  very  good  of  you ;  what  do  you  suggest?" 

"That  you  go  away  a  little  while  and  leave  me  to 
think  it  all  over.  Make  an  end  of  your  talk  about 
building  this,  and  improving  that,  and  something 
will  be  done.  They're  an  obstinate  lot  down  yon- 
der. I  think  you  will  find  that  they  have  the  upper 
hand  of  you  just  at  present  and  mean  to  use  it." 

"Oh,  a  menace.  Well,  we  must  see  what  can  be 
done.  I'll  think  it  over,  too;  meanwhile  rest  as- 
sured about  Miss  Jesse.  She  won't  be  coming  to 
the  Castle." 

"She'd  better  not.  I'll  teach  her  that.  Whatever 
I  may  do,  she'll  have  no  hand  in  it — until  I  give  her 
leave." 

Canning  smiled  at  the  open  threat,  but  he  chose  to 
ignore  it.  His  desire  to  speak  openly  to  this  blunt 
old  man  vanished  in  the  face  of  the  insult — and  he 
rode  away,  conscious  of  humiliation  and  of  defeat. 

206 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Here  as  in  London  the  human  instrument,  different 
as  might  be  its  key,  still  harped  this  theme  of  exile 
and  of  flight.  Just  as  old  Sir  Horace  Gipps,  the 
banker,  had  advised  him  to  quit  England,  so  this  old 
farmer  upon  this  remote  island  had  no  other  coun- 
sel. And  he  began  to  ask  if  such  were  not  words 
of  wisdom  after  all.  A  new  country  would  care 
little  for  his  story — an  alien  people  would  not  judge 
him  as  they  judged  him  in  this  England  of  his  hopes. 
What,  then,  forbade  him  to  obey  the  voice  of  rea- 
son? 

A  pretty  face — a  pair  of  wistful  eyes — a  little 
peasant  girl  who  had  climbed  to  the  heights  bare- 
footed and  had  told  him  that  she  would  not  forget ! 
Here  on  the  open  down  the  truth  confronted  him 
once  more.  If  he  stayed  upon  Bell  Island,  it  would 
be  for  Jesse's  sake.  If  he  still  sought  to  conciliate 
these  people,  her  faith  bade  him  attempt  the  task. 
In  a  fine  vision  of  success  and  triumph  he  saw  him- 
self triumphant  in  his  island,  as  aforetime  in  the 
great  city — the  Castle  resplendent,  the  island  trans- 
formed, the  people  worshiping  him.  He  would 
make  a  home  here  which  others  should  envy — and 
having  made  it,  would  turn  again  to  the  fields  he  had 
deserted,  to  the  scene  of  the  debacle  which  should 
become  the  theatre  of  his  vindication. 

It  was  a  glorious  afternoon,  and  might  well  have 
allured  him  to  gentle  thoughts.  Far  out  to  the  west 

207 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  ocean  rolled  in  mighty  grandeur,  an  infinite 
waste  of  blue  water  whose  vast  distances  might  be 
measured  by  the  sails  of  ships  and  the  black  hulls  of 
the  passing  steamers.  The  land  itself  was  golden 
with  the  full  ripe  corn,  the  pastures  still  green,  the 
broom  a  blaze  of  summer  glory,  the  heather  a  feast 
of  white  and  pink  to  gladden  the  eyes  with  all  its 
suggestion  of  nature's  solitudes  and  their  bounty. 
Eastward,  the  shores  of  England  stood  out  plainly 
in  the  radiant  sunshine — you  could  espy  the  low 
shores  about  Westward  Ho,  and  the  very  light- 
ships which  marked  the  river;  while  down  in  the 
near  hollow,  the  smoke  from  the  cottages  floated  as 
a  dream  cloud  above  the  little  hamlet.  Never  had 
Canning  looked  upon  a  picture  which  suggested  so 
rich  a  harmony  of  land  and  seascape,  or  could  please 
more  readily  with  all  the  changing  phases  of  a  nat- 
ural and  unspoiled  beauty.  But  for  men,  he  said, 
this  would  be  Eldorado  indeed — and  he  asked  of 
how  many  scenes  the  same  could  be  said,  and  re- 
flected sadly  that  by  man,  and  not  by  nature,  came 
the  misfortunes  of  the  world. 

So  vain  thoughts  accompanied  him  down  the 
dangerous  bridle  path  from  the  heights  to  the  ham- 
let, and  thence  to  the  winding  village  street  and  the 
purlieus  of  the  harbor.  His  own  launch  had  gone 
across  to  the  mainland  to  take  his  friend,  Ernest 


208 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Hobby,  back  to  his  building — but  there  were  two 
fishing  boats  at  the  mole,  and  a  brig  chartered  by 
Japhon  Fearney  to  bring  the  island  coal.  The  lat- 
ter gave  employment  to  half  a  dozen  of  the  younger 
men,  who  ceased  to  haul  the  baskets  as  Canning 
rode  by,  and  watched  him  with  that  insolent  curi- 
osity whose  meaning  never  can  be  mistaken.  No 
man,  however,  said  a  word,  and  when  he  met  Tom 
Weede,  that  worthy  touched  his  hat  with  all  the  old 
respect;  though,  as  he  said  at  the  "Jolly  Admiral" 
afterward,  "I  were  that  took  by  surprise  that  I'd 
ha'  done  it  onthinkingly,  though  it  were  not  to  be 
undone  arterward,  surely,  mates."  As  for  the 
women  of  the  place,  they  curtsied  with  the  same 
readiness  as  of  old,  and  the  whole  passage  would 
have  been  in  some  way  a  triumph  but  for  Ned  Run- 
ning, the  fisherman's  son,  who,  creeping  behind  the 
shelter  of  an  old  barrel  on  the  beach,  deliberately 
flung  a  stone  at  the  rider  and  laughed  when  he  had 
done  it. 

Canning  heard  the  stone  fall  idly  on  the  road  be- 
fore him,  and  turned  as  sharply  as  though  a  man 
had  cut  him  with  a  whip.  He  could  not  see  the  lad 
who  had  flung  the  missile,  nor  was  he  aware  whence 
it  had  come.  For  a  moment  he  was  ready  to  accuse 
the  men  at  the  windlass,  and  he  rode  a  few  paces 
back  immediately,  facing  them  angrily  and  asking 
what  they  meant.  To  this  the  reply  was  evasive. 

209 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"We  aren't  throw'd  no  stones,  guv'ner — what  do 
'ee  talk  about  ?" 

Some  one  laughed,  and  a  lout  made  a  gesture 
which  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  guilty  lad,  seeing 
his  opportunity,  crept  from  his  hiding  place  and 
went  scudding  along  the  beach,  a  great  shout  of 
laughter  after  him.  Now,  for  a  truth,  the  affair 
was  ugly  enough,  and  without  another  word  to  any 
one  Canning  rode  at  a  canter  from  the  village, 
straight  up  to  the  Castle  gates,  as  though  they  had 
been  the  portals  of  sanctuary.  Never  in  his  life 
had  he  known  such  anger.  That  these  mere  brutes, 
the  dregs  of  the  village,  the  drunken  loafers  should 
be  the  chosen  instrument !  And  he  unable  to  punish 
them  or  to  answer  a  single  word.  No  insult  could 
surpass  that,  no  truth  of  the  day  convince  him  more 
quickly  of  the  folly  of  all  he  had  contrived.  Either 
he  or  they  must  leave  Bell  Island,  he  said ;  and  say- 
ing it,  a  voice  of  anger  bade  him  hunt  them  out 
neck  and  crop,  buy  their  cottages  whatever  the  price, 
serve  them  wholesale  with  notice  to  quit,  burn  the 
very  hamlet  to  the  ground  if  need  be.  Was  he  not 
the  master?  Who  should  forbid  him? 

The  thought  took  him  quickly  to  his  house.  He 
would  have  no  delays,  and  Abraham  Wesson  should 
be  his  instrument.  The  lawyer  would  not  hesitate — 
he  was  just  the  fellow  for  this  business,  and  would 
make  a  desert  of  the  place  if  the  fees  were  large 

210 


THE    FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

enough.  Canning  began  to  perceive  that  salvation 
Jay  not  in  concession,  but  in  action,  not  in  an  appeal 
for  charity,  but  in  the  determination  to  do  by  these 
people  as  they  had  done  by  him. 

And  in  that  spirit  he  came  up  to  the  house,  so 
full  of  his  own  thoughts  that  he  saw  nothing  of  the 
cruiser  which  had  lately  anchored  in  the  eastern 
bay,  or  some  of  her  crew — young  Lieutenant  Blake 
especially,  who  at  that  very  moment  was  question- 
ing Jesse,  down  in  the  cove  where  the  beacon  had 
been  kindled  upon  the  momentous  night  of  his  ar- 
rival at  Bell  Island. 


211 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    EFFIGY 

THE  news  fell  upon  Bell  Island  as  tidings  of  a 
woeful  disaster.  The  people  were  to  go  from  their 
homes  which  they  and  their  forefathers  had  occu- 
pied through  the  centuries.  No  explanation  was 
offered  them,  no  grace  allowed.  The  master  of  the 
Castle  had  decreed  this  thing,  and  go  they  must. 
But  weekly  tenants,  for  so  the  custom  had  been  as 
long  as  any  man  could  remember,  they  received 
from  the  solemn  Wesson  but  a  week's  notice,  and 
were  to  be  gone  within  seven  days,  he  said.  Japhon 
Fearney  remained  alone  in  the  pride  of  possession. 
He  had  bought  his  farm  from  the  Morencys  more 
than  ten  years  ago — no  stranger  might  turn  him 
out. 

And  yet  he  quailed  despite  his  advantage.  These 
intervening  weeks  (for  it  was  now  the  month  of 
October)  had  been  no  weeks  of  triumph  for  him. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  console  himself  with  the  thought 
that  John  Canning  had  been  humbled  to  the  dust, 
and  he,  Japhon,  magnified  accordingly.  His  ex- 
ultation took  no  bit  in  its  teeth  nor  went  beyond  a 

212 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

snail's  pace.  The  shadow  lay  ever  upon  his  house ; 
he  would  listen  the  night  through  for  the  steps  of 
the  men  who  came  to  arrest  him — the  dawn  found 
him  ready  to  say  that  his  fears  were  those  of  a 
child's  imagination,  and  should  never  trouble  him 
again.  But  the  day  did  not  bring  him  peace — the 
phantom  never  left  him. 

So  tragic,  too,  that  this  should  be  the  fruit  of  it, 
that  all  his  words  to  Jesse  and  the  islanders  should 
thus  ring  hollow.  How  could  he  denounce  his 
neighbor  with  any  fervor  when  men  might  be  de- 
nouncing him  to-morrow? 

How  could  he  remind  the  child  of  her  duty,  when 
any  day  might  leave  her  to  be  the  mistress  of  her 
own  acts,  and  the  sole  arbiter  of  her  fortunes? 
Japhon,  in  truth,  began  to  wonder  if  it  would  not  be 
wiser  to  take  Canning's  part  outright,  to  give  him 
Jesse ;  and  coming  to  his  aid,  to  silence  these  malev- 
olent tongues  by  the  weight  of  his  authority  alone? 
But  this  was  a  mighty  matter  and  not  to  be  con- 
cluded lightly.  Self-interest  warred  with  pride  and 
gained  no  victory. 

Now,  to  be  honest,  the  islanders  would  have  been 
quick  to  forget  Canning's  misfortune  if  he  had  been 
wise  enough  to  leave  them  a  little  while,  and  trust  to 
time  for  his  justification.  Diversions  of  the  harvest, 
but  especially  the  passing  and  repassing  of  the  war- 
ships then  engaged  in  the  famous  maceuvres  in  the 

213 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Channel  and  off  the  Irish  coast,  kept  the  people 
amused  and  stilled  their  tongues.  They  liked  to 
have  the  Handy  Men  ashore  in  the  few  intervals  of 
their  leisure;  it  was  something-  to  see  the  officers 
go  up  to  the  farm  and  take  a  meal  with  that  sour 
eld  curmudgeon,  Japhon ;  and  even  if  the  same  good 
fellows  never  went  to  the  Castle,  that  fact  would 
have  won  upon  the  people's  sympathy  in  the  end, 
but  for  Canning's  unhappy  act  and  its  consequences. 

"They  won't  bemean  theirselves  with  such  as  'ee," 
Tom  Weede  would  say,  and  the  others  agreed; 
though,  perhaps,  the  thought  remained  that  Bell 
Island  was  disgraced  by  the  fact,  and  that  it  would 
have  been  a  better  day  had  the  Castle  gates  stood 
open  at  such  an  hour.  No  news  of  Canning's  inten- 
tions had  come  to  them  nor  had  they  heard  further 
from  the  Castle,  whose  very  servants  were  forbid- 
den to  set  foot  in  the  village,  and  whose  courtyard 
remained  as  silent  as  the  grave.  Some  believed  that 
the  master  had  already  gone  to  England — others 
declared  that  he  was  about  to  go;  none  knew  the 
truth  in  all  its  melancholy. 

He  had  not  left;  he  was  still  alone  in  the  great 
house,  from  whose  windows  he  could  watch  the 
warship  in  the  bay  and  espy  her  officers  going 
ashore.  These  men  knew  his  story — it  would  be 
impossible  that  they  should  not;  and,  knowing  it, 
his  house  must  be  anathema  to  them.  No  invita- 

214. 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

tion  did  he  dare  to  pen,  no  hope  of  their  society  en- 
tertain. Perchance,  had  they  met  him  in  London,  it 
would  have  been  different;  but  here,  upon  Bell  Is- 
land, there  could  be  no  middle  course.  Ostracism, 
absolute  and  unmistakable — no  knowledge  that  such 
a  man  as  John  Canning  existed;  no  truck  with  him 
whatever. 

It  may  be  that  these  were  foolish  notions,  and 
that  he  was  unwise  to  torment  himself  about  the 
matter.  He  knew  that  some  of  the  officers  had  vis- 
ited Japhon  Fearney,  and  heard  without  particular 
interest  that  Jesse  was  the  loadstar.  This  hardly 
troubled  him.  He  had  never  been  a  jealous  man, 
and  he  imagined  no  serious  purpose  of  the  incident. 
When  they  told  him  that  Jesse  had  been  seen  many 
times  with  Lieutenant  Blake,  and  that  he  had  taken 
her  out  to  visit  the  cruiser  Marathon,  he  declined  to 
believe  the  story,  or  half  believing  it,  made  allow- 
ance for  gossip's  multiples.  What  mattered  it  if  the 
girl  had  gone?  Should  he  put  nun's  veiling  upon 
her  because  he  might  not  ask  her  to  be  his  wife? 
Better  to  believe  the  stories  fables;  better  to  shut 
his  ears  to  them. 

Herein  he  showed  wisdom  above  that  of  his  other 
acts.  Jesse  had,  to  be  sure,  seen  much  of  Philip 
Blake,  and  this  young  man  already  had  made  love 
to  her.  A  true  sailor,  he  would  have  scoffed  at  the 
idea  that  a  man  should  visit  Kearney's  farm  with 

215 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

any  other  idea  than  that  of  making  love  to  the 
pretty  daughter;  and  would  have  been  just  as  much 
amused  if  any  one  had  spoken  of  marriage.  The 
jest  of  a  day,  the  episode  in  a  busy  life,  the  red  rose 
snatched  for  the  softness  of  his  petals — here  was 
Philip  Blake's  gospel.  In  her  turn,  Jesse  was 
hardly  conscious  that  he  was  making  love  to  her  at 
all.  She  listened  to  him  because  he  could  tell  her 
tales  of  John  Canning — honest  tales  unspiced  by 
malice,  and  full  of  welcome  truths. 

"Know  him?"  Blake  had  said;  "why,  my  old  dad 
made  pots  out  of  him  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  He 
used  to  be  the  cleverest  of  the  lot  of  them — poor 
devil,  we  never  thought  he'd  go  under.  But  that's 
the  luck  of  it.  He  wanted  to  be  at  the  masthead 
before  he'd  learned  to  climb.  Just  like  these  chaps, 
Miss  Fearney — they're  worth  twopence-halfpenny 
to-day,  a  million  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after 
they're  in  prison.  That  was  Canning's  story — but 
I  don't  think  any  the  worse  of  him,  and  I'd  have 
gone  up  to  his  house  if  he'd  asked  me." 

She  was  glad  to  hear  it,  and  tried  to  learn  from 
him  how  it  was  that  Mr.  Canning  had  come  to  such 
a  place  as  Bell  Island,  and  why  the  rest  of  the  world 
did  not  treat  him  as  this  boy  would  have  treated 
him.  Here  Philip  Blake  was  at  a  loss;  he  could 
make  but  a  bungle  of  a  kindly  philosophy  learned 
from  his  own  and  not  from  the  world's  text  books. 

216 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  suppose  he  hid  some  of  his  ill-gotten  gains — 
these  chaps  generally  do — and  now  he's  spending 
them.  He  thought  he'd  be  out  of  the  way  in  this, 
place — but  a  man  is  never  out  of  the  way  when  he 
has  done  seven  years  at  Portland.  That's  a  fact  an 
Archbishop  couldn't  get  over.  We  may  be  sorry 
for  him,  but  what  can  we  do?  Our  womenfolk 
won't  look  at  him,  and  half  the  men  turn  their  backs 
when  he  passes.  If  I'd  have  been  Canning,  I  would 
have  gone  to  South  America.  They  don't  care  a 
dump  there  whether  you've  been  in  prison  or  out  of 
it,  and  he  could  have  made  love  to  the  Spanish 
women.  What's  the  good  of  having  money  and 
shutting  yourself  up  in  a  place  like  this?  He  might 
as  well  be  in  Pentonville.  Now,  don't  you  think 
so,  Miss  Jesse?" 

She  replied  that  she  did  not.  The  shame  had 
spread  a  net  over  her  also,  and  left  her  powerless 
to  tell  any  human  being  all  that  she  felt  and  dared 
to  hope  because  of  John  Canning.  Fidelity,  staunch, 
staunch,  unquestioning  fidelity,  predominated  at  the 
ruined  shrine,  and  if  she  no  longer  worshiped,  at 
least  she  might  serve. 

"I  think  that  Mr.  Canning  was  wise  to  come  here, 
and  I  don't  believe  he  has  done  any  man  a  wrong," 
she  said,  and  so  she  betrayed  herself  to  this  quick- 
witted man,  who  knew  women  the  better  because  he 
had  never  made  a  study  of  them. 

217 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"He's  lucky  in  his  friends,  Miss  Jesse — you'll 
have  to  introduce  me." 

"I !  Oh,  no ;  my  father  forbids  me  to  go  to  his 
house." 

"Of  course  he  does — he's  wise.  Come,  that 
would  be  a  pretty  thing-,  wouldn't  it?  You  might 
meet  some  of  his  old  friends  from  Portland.  I 
wonder  if  they  ever  steal  his  spoons?" 

"You  will  not  win  my  friendship  by  jesting,  Mr. 
Blake." 

"Quite  right  to  say  that — I  was  a  beast.  And 
please  don't  think  I  wouldn't  visit  John  Canning. 
He  should  see  me  there  to-morrow  if  he'd  send  a 
line  to  ask  me.  I'd  never  jump  on  a  man  that's 
down,  Miss  Jesse.  Some  day  I  might  be  down  my- 
self." 

"Why  don't  you  call  at  the  Castle  without  an  in- 
vitation, Mr.  Blake?" 

"Ah,  that  wouldn't  quite  do.  You  see  the  cir- 
cumstances are  peculiar — he  mightn't  like  it." 

"I  feel  sure  he  would  be  very  pleased." 

"I'll  go  if  you  ask  me." 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

He  laughed,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  her. 

"A  good  deal  I  should  say — now  haven't  you? 
Tell  me  straight,  haven't  you  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
it,  Miss  Jesse?" 


218 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  was  very  pale  and  serious,  and  by  no  means 
disposed  to  gratify  his  curiosity. 

"I  have  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  any  friend  of 
Mr.  Canning's " 

"And  as  a  friend  may  give  him  some  good  ad- 
vice. I'd  tell  him  to  travel  if  I  were  you.  What 
can  a  man  do  on  a  rock  like  this?  Isn't  the  world 
open  to  him,  just  as  it's  open  to  any  man  who  would 
lead  a  man's  life?" 

"Then  women  should  not  travel?" 

"I  don't  say  so.  They  ought  to  see  the  world  as 
well  as  men.  You  have  never  traveled,  I  suppose. 
Think  how  much  you  have  missed " 

"What  have  I  missed?" 

"Life,  cities,  art,  music — everything  which  makes 
the  world  go  round  for  brainy  people.  I'd  like  to 
show  you  the  world  some  day — we  might  go  to 
Paris  to  begin  with.  That's  the  place  for  girls.  I 
never  knew  one  of  them  yet  who  didn't  like  Paris. 
Now,  honestly,  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  Paris  ?" 

He  meant  much  by  the  question,  but  it  was  lost 
upon  Jesse,  who  had  often  traveled  in  her  dreams 
and  builded  cities  of  her  imagination  in  many  a 
distant  quarter  of  the  globe.  She  did  not  under- 
stand that  this  man  was  a  dangerous  friend — far 
from  it,  she  liked  him  for  what  he  had  said  about 
John  Canning  and  encouraged  him,  as  did  her 


219 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

father,  to  come  to  the  farm.  Japhon  Kearney  would 
have  offered  no  opposition  to  such  a  marriage — it 
would  have  suited  him  very  well  that  his  daughter 
should  be  the  wife  of  a  naval  officer. 

And  so  the  friendship  ran  on,  and  might  have 
culminated  in  that  visit  to  the  Castle  which  Jesse  so 
earnestly  desired  the  lieutenant  to  make.  Failure 
here  must  be  set  down  to  Canning's  own  deed,  and 
especially  to  his  threats  against  the  islanders.  A 
turbulent,  independent  race,  they  swore  that  the 
law  must  come  armed  to  their  doors  ere  they  quitted 
the  hamlet  in  which  their  lives  had  been  spent. 
When  entreaty  and  protest  did  not  help  them,  they 
fell  to  open  hostilities. 

No  man  from  the  great  house  dared  to  show  his 
face  in  the  village  street  now.  An  attempt  to  fire 
the  launch  in  which  Canning  crossed  to  the  main- 
land was  frustrated  only  by  Japhon  Kearney's  in- 
tervention. Koiled  in  this,  the  wit  of  Krank  Ben- 
son contrived  an  effigy,  and  they  built  in  that  very 
cove  where  they  would  have  wrecked  the  English- 
man on  the  night  of  his  arrival  a  monstrous  effigy, 
tarred  and  feathered  and  hoisted  shoulder  high 
upon  a  barrel.  This  they  carried  up  the  hill  to  the 
Castle  gates,  fired  it  triumphantly,  and  kindled  a 
beacon  in  whose  radiance  every  brick  of  the  old 
house  glowed  red  and  brilliant  through  long  hours 
of  the  night  of  brawling.  Let  the  man  come  out 

220 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

and  show  himself — they  would  know  how  to  deal 
with  him. 

Now,  Jesse  herself  was  a  witness  of  this  scene,  for 
the  bright  light  called  her  from  the  farmhouse  about 
the  hour  of  ten  o'clock,  and  her  father  wisely  feign- 
ing to  know  nothing  of  the  business  and  keeping 
close  to  his  bed — she  ran  across  the  down  and  stood 
upon  a  high  place  of  the  cliff  to  watch  the  riot  out, 
and  to  pray  silently  for  her  lover's  safety.  A  splen- 
did night  of  autumn  befriended  her,  and  added  the 
bewitching  moonlight  to  the  beacon's  fiery  glow. 
She  could  espy  the  Marathon  lying  at  anchor  under 
the  lea  of  the  eastern  shore,  the  fishing  boats  over 
toward  the  mainland,  the  flowing  sheen  of  the  dis- 
tant ocean,  the  Castle  uprising  as  a  citadel  of  her 
hopes.  Creeping  a  little  closer,  half  afraid  of  her- 
self and  the  omens  of  the  night,  she  began  to  name 
the  men  who  were  there  assembled;  the  Bensons, 
the  Runnings,  Jo,  the  nigger ;  Isaacson,  the  Swede  ; 
coal-begrimed  sailors  from  the  Tyne,  the  riffraff  of 
Bell  Island  and  of  the  smacks  from  the  mainland. 
These  howled  like  so  many  wild  beasts,  defying 
Canning  to  show  himself.  A  little  nearer  still,  step 
by  step  toward  the  scene,  and  she  heard  their  threats 
more  clearly.  "Burn  him  out!"  was  now  the  cry. 
The  devil  of  revenge  had  been  loosed  among  the 
men,  and  they  would  have  dared  any  mischief. 

John  Canning,  pacing  the  Long  Gallery  alone, 

221 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

heard  these  cries  and  was  not  affrighted  by  them. 
Vainly  his  servants  came  to  him  from  hour  to- hour 
and  begged  him  to  summon  aid  from  the  warship, 
or  at  the  worst  to  escape  by  the  garden  gate  down 
to  the  shore  and  to  his  yacht.  He  refused  to  budge 
an  inch.  "Go  yourselves  if  your  courage  is  not 
equal  to  it,"  he  told  his  butler  Mellish,  and  that 
worthy  protested  that  untold  gold  would  not  buy 
him  to  do  such  a  thing.  Here  the  valet  joined  him ; 
but  the  oath  did  not  prevent  the  pair  of  them  keep- 
ing the  kitchen  door  wide  open  and  preparing  for 
flight  incontinent  should  the  occasion  arise.  Their 
master  was  mad,  they  said,  to  trifle  with  such  a 
crew.  The  horrid  shouts  resounded  through  the 
vaulted  chambers,  as  sallies  from  the  throats  of 
demons.  And  there  was  the  object  of  them,  as  un- 
concerned as  ever  he  had  been  in  all  his  life,  pacing 
the  great  room  alone ;  smoking  his  cigar  easily ;  even 
talking  of  taking  the  enemy  by  a  flank  movement 
and  putting  him  to  rout. 

"How  many  of  us  are  at  home?"  he  asked  Mel- 
lish. The  fellow  was  too  shocked  to  answer  him 
without  many  a  stammer  and  many  a  protest. 

"At  home,  sir?  God  bless  me,  you  wouldn't 
think  of  opposing  of  'em,  Mr.  Canning?  I'm  sure, 
sir,  I  wouldn't  do  anything  of  that  sort." 

"I  asked  you  how  many  men-servants  were  in 
the  house,  Mellish — please  answer  me." 

222 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Mellish  did  not  usually  forget  his  aspirates,  but 
they  went  by  the  board  that  night. 

"Height,  sir,"  he  cried,  "height  in  hall." 

"Tell  them  to  get  any  kind  of  weapon  they  can 
and  to  follow  me — I  am  going  to  talk  to  the  people, 
Mellish." 

"My  word,  sir,  I  hope  not ;  they're  no  better  than 
raving  madmen.  Listen  to  'em  with  your  hown 
hears,  Mr.  Canning." 

"I  can  hear  perfectly,  Mellish;  now  go  and  do 
what  I  tell  you." 

The  butler  went  off,  but  did  not  soon  return. 
Mutiny  was  abroad  in  the  servants'  hall,  and  opened 
a  craven  mouth  to  speak  bitter  words.  Why  should 
they  obey  such  a  master?  Had  he  not  been  in 
prison?  Why  risk  their  lives  for  him?  Certainly, 
they  were  not  paid  wages  for  that.  Let  them  refuse 
to  go;  nay,  more,  let  them  hasten  to  quit  a  house 
where  such  requests  were  possible.  Such  a  resolu- 
tion was  carried  unanimously,  but  none  dared  to  re- 
port it  to  John  Canning.  He  rang  the  bell  vainly — 
even  the  worthy  Mellish  had  not  the  courage  for 
such  a  job,  and  when  he  appeared  at  last,  it  was  fear 
of  his  master  prevailing  above  fear  of  the  men 
which  sent  him  to  the  Long  Gallery. 

"Just  as  I  said,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  his  face  as 
white  as  the  marble  of  the  mantels ;  "not  a  man  of 
'em  is  willing  to  leave  the  females  unprotected." 

223 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Won't  go,  eh,  Mellish?" 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  there  ain't  none  of  'em 
been  in  the  army,  and  this  is  soldier's  work." 

Canning  smiled.  He  had  expected  it — and  per- 
haps he  knew  that  these  poor  cravens  were  wiser 
than  he.  None  the  less  he  meant  to  go  out  and 
alone  if  none  would  follow  him. 

"Do  you  what  you  please,  Mellish,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  am  going  down  to  see  what  the  trouble  is  about." 

"God  help  us  and  save  us,  sir;  they'll  murder 
you." 

"In  which  case  you  will  see  that  the  murderer  is 
hanged.  Now  go  to  my  dressing  room — you  will 
find  a  revolver  in  the  little  drawer  upon  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  dressing  table;  bring  it  to  me  and 
my  hat." 

The  butler  obeyed  him,  too  terrified  to  protest 
further.  He  was  a  dreadful  coward,  but  he  stood 
at  the  front  door  while  John  Canning  passed  out 
and  followed  him  with  feeble  steps  across  the  inner 
courtyard  to  the  great  gate  upon  which  the  mob  was 
beating.  Here  you  walked  in  deep  darkness — the 
blacker  for  the  crimson  glow  upon  the  windows 
above;  here  you  heard  the  resounding  shouts  and 
could  estimate  their  ferocity.  These  madmen  were 
as  good  as  their  word — they  were  trying  to  burn 
down  the  Castle  gates  that  afterward  the  house  it- 


224 


THE,   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

self  might  hear  the  red  cock  crowing.  But  what 
was  more  odd  was  the  fact  that  they  fell  to  silence 
even  as  the  gates  were  unbarred.  You  might  have 
said  that  the  very  clatter  of  the  bolts  had  put  them 
to  shame. 

Canning  threw  the  gate  wide  open,  and  imme- 
diately understood  both  the  silence  and  its  meaning. 
It  is  true  that  a  belch  of  flame  half  blinded  his 
eyes  and  that  the  heavy  smoke  of  burning  wood  al- 
most choked  him  upon  the  threshold,  but  the  voice 
of  the  advocate  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  A  child 
was  contesting  with  the  rabble,  he  said,  and  that 
child  was  Jesse  Fearney.  Oh,  it  was  music  to  hear 
her  voice,  a  very  delight  to  watch  her  as  she  stood, 
the  beacon's  glow  setting  warm  upon  her  angry 
face,  the  radiance  of  fire  about  her,  the  whole  soul 
of  her  womanhood  pleading  with  the  men!  And 
with  what  eloquence,  with  what  naive  insistence 
upon  their  folly,  with  what  appeals  to  their  good 
sense  and  to  their  fear! 

"Go  back  to  your  homes,"  she  was  crying;  "oh, 
do  you  think  you  will  not  be  punished  for  this? 
Are  we  murderers  on  Bell  Island  ?  Shame !  shame ! 
— must  I,  a  girl,  teach  you  your  duty?  Is  there  no 
man  who  thinks  of  to-morrow — none  who  has  a 
home  to  save?  Is  this  the  way  to  seek  favor? — 
I'll  not  believe  it — you  are  not  all  cowards — there 
are  men  here.  God  send  you  grace  to  hear  the 

225 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

truth — there  are  men  among  you — let  them  speak 
in  the  name  of  God." 

They  cowered  before  her,  drawing  back  from  the 
fire  they  had  kindled  against  the  gate,  and  consult- 
ing one  with  the  other  in  low  tones.  To  be  sure 
they  were  somewhat  at  a  loss  since  that  shrewd 
Plot-all,  Frank  Benson,  had  deserted  them  directly 
his  work  was  done,  and  was  now  gone  back  to  the 
hamlet  to  deplore  their  mad  intentions.  None  the 
less  they  were  ready  to  stammer  a  poor  excuse; 
when  what  must  happen  but  that  the  great  gate 
flies  open,  the  fire  is  flung  to  the  winds,  and  the 
master  himself  stands  accusing  them.  Now,  for  a 
truth,  they  were  glad — for  who  would  have  deal- 
ings with  a  woman? 

"What  do  you  want  here  ?"  he  asked  them,  strid- 
ing across  the  fire-bespattered  ground  and  facing 
the  giant  Bill  Running,  with  a  menace  in  every 
gesture;  "what  do  you  want  here,  men?" 

An  insolent  laugh  answered  him.  He  heard  Jesse 
as  a  man  hears  the  voice  of  a  dream,  imploring  him 
to  go  back,  but  he  advanced  the  further  because 
of  it. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  that  this  is  a  crime  for  which 
you  can  serve  half  your  lives  in  prison?"  he  cried. 
"Do  you  wish  me  to  send  to  the  mainland  to-mor- 
row with  a  request  for  police?  Madmen,  do  you 
know  what  it  means?" 

226 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Some  one  at  the  back  cried  out  that  he  should 
know  himself,  seem'  as  "he'd  been  there  afore," 
and  the  sally  provoked  a  general  shout  of  "Jail- 
bird !  He's  a  jail-bird !"  There  is  courage  in  many 
voices,  and  these  men  now  found  their  courage. 
"Put  him  in  the  sea,"  cried  the  far  from  valorous 
Tom  Weede,  and  the  less  eloquent  Bill  Running 
laid  a  hand  upon  the  master's  shoulder.  An  instant 
later  the  butt  end  of  the  revolver  struck  him  to  the 
ground,  and  he  lay  senseless  and  bleeding  with  none 
to  pity  him. 

"Pick  up  that  man,"  Canning  roared.  None 
obeyed  him  but  Jesse,  who  sprang  in  between  and 
knelt  at  the  ruffian's  side.  A  mere  girl  now  seemed 
the  arbiter  of  life  and  death — they  must  trample 
upon  her  to  get  at  Canning's  throat — the  wolves 
primed  to  tear  him  to  pieces  when  the  first  of  the 
wolves  should  leap. 

"Back!"  she  cried;  and  then,  "Will  none  help  me? 
Will  none  help  his  comrade?  Mr.  Benson,  Tom 
Weede — yes,  yes,  I  see  you  both — will  you  not  help 
me  ?  Are  you  mad  that  you  stand  there  and  do  noth- 
ing?" 

They  responded  with  shamed  laughs.  The  others, 
driven  desperate  by  the  blow  and  their  own  re- 
straint, did  not  cease  for  a  moment  to  cry  "Jail- 
bird !"  and  upon  that  the  foulest  oaths ;  while  John 
Canning  stood  as  a  figure  of  marble,  the  pistol 

227 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

raised,  the  ear  intent.  When  they  leaped  upon  him 
at  last  he  did  not  fire — his  eyes  were  still  upon  the 
girl's  face — the  vision  still  fascinated  him. 

They  fell  upon  him  like  ravening  wolves,  over 
Jesse's  prostrate  body,  fighting  with  each  other  to 
get  at  the  hated  throat.  But  with  them  and  among 
them  came  twenty  of  the  Marathon's  crew,  sum- 
moned from  the  ship  by  the  glare  of  the  beacon  and 
firmly  believing  the  Castle  to  be  on  fire. 

Ay,  a  merry  bout  for  the  Handy  Man,  and  one  in 
which  he  delighted.  Devil  a  chance  for  raving 
fishermen  now,  or  for  any  coal-heaver  that  ever 
sailed  from  Tyne.  Jack  was  among  them  like  a 
merry  policeman  at  an  Irish  fair.  Down  they  went 
headlong — some  fled  incontinent;  others  bawled 
like  women — a  few  were  burned  by  the  very  fire 
they  had  kindled,  and  cried  as  children  at  the  pain 
of  it. 

But  John  Canning  stood  unharmed  through  it  all, 
and  stooping,  as  the  sailors  closed  about  him,  he 
caught  Jesse  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  burning 
lips. 


228 


STOOPING,  AS   THE   SAILORS   CLOSED   ABOUT   HIM,    HE 
CAUGHT  JESSE   IN   HIS   ARMS   AND    KISSED    HER     LIPS 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXIII 

A     SHIP     OF     SHADOWS 

JAPHON  had  not  suspected  his  daughter's  absence 
from  the  house,  and  when  he  heard  of  it  from  Han- 
nah, the  maid,  very  early  in  the  morning,  his  first 
thoughts  were  entirely  selfish  and  appertaining  to 
his  own  position  in  the  matter. 

He  had  known  well  enough  that  mischief  was  in 
the  air,  but  the  nature  of  the  mischief  he  had  not 
discovered.  Perhaps  a  firm  belief  in  the  cowardice 
of  the  population  of  Bell  Island  disarmed  a  fear  of 
real  violence.  The  riffraff  might  carry  an  effigy 
up  to  the  Castle  and  shout  itself  hoarse  there,  while 
they  burned  it,  but  no  overt  act  would  be  committed. 
He  was  not  sorry  to  see  John  Canning  humbled; 
and  humiliation  would  make  the  fellow  more  pli- 
able. So  he  slept  upon  it,  determined  to  know 
nothing  until  the  need  arose.  Let  the  morrow  tell 
its  own  tale — he  would  prove  a  ready  listener. 

And  what  a  tale  it  was!— of  riot  and  tumult,  of 
fire  and  burning,  of  a  mob  maddened  to  mad  acts,  of 
the  King's  sailors  called  from  their  sleep  to  inter- 
vene. But  more  amazing  still,  a  tale  of  Jesse's  ab- 
sence and  of  the  story  of  her  deed.  Oh,  now,  be 

229 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

sure  the  old  man  was  aflame.  His  daughter  to 
have  been  where  duty  should  have  sent  him — the 
law  upheld,  not  by  the  King's  magistrate,  but  by  a 
mere  girl.  And  she  absent  from  her  home  in  de- 
fiance of  her 'father — lodged  at  the  very  Castle 
which  he  had  forbidden  her  to  enter.  In  truth  the 
supreme  humiliation;  the  final  scene  in  this  drama 
of  disgrace. 

>  Japhon  had  risen  at  six  o'clock  according  to  his 
custom,  and  Hannah,  the  maid,  at  once  brought 
him  the  amazing  tidings.  A  visit  some  two  hours 
later  to  the  harbor  and  the  village  afforded  him  but 
meagre  satisfaction.  Few  but  women  were  about 
at  such  an  hour.  The  fishermen,  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  themselves,  had  put  to  sea,  and  their 
boats  already  stood  upon  a  southward  course,  mak- 
ing for  the  open  ocean  or  the  Scillies.  Such 
strangers  as  helped  to  haul  the  coal  from  the  "for- 
eign" brig  laughed  when  he  questioned  them,  and 
pretended  to  know  nothing  of  what  had  happened. 
"A  bad  business  up  at  the  great  house — na,  lad, 
what  dost  thee  clatter  aboot?"  they  asked  him,  and 
he  had  no  evidence  to  bring  against  them.  When 
he  left  them,  just  such  a  volley  of  insolent  laughter 
followed  him  as  had  put  John  Canning  to  shame 
yesterday.  These  oafs  had  nothing  to  lose.  They 
did  not  care  a  straw  for  any  King's  magistrate  in 
the  three  kingdoms. 

230 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Some  of  the  women,  to  be  sure,  were  more  elo- 
quent. They  deplored  what  had  been  done,  and 
were  more  wistful  about  the  consequences.  Mr. 
Fearney,  they  said,  should  make  it  his  business  to 
tell  the  master  that  the  poor  fellows  were  not  them- 
selves to  do  such  a  thing.  They  had  been  maddened 
by  the  threat  and  were  not  responsible.  Let  some 
one  go  up  to  the  Castle  and  humbly  beg  pardon — a 
suggestion  which  Japhon  received  with  an  oath. 
Was  he  the  man  to  be  the  minister  of  apology  ?  He 
would  have  struck  any  man  who  had  asked  him  as 
much. 

"Your  husbands  are  a  pack  of  fools,"  he  snapped; 
"they  deserve  what  they  are  going  to  get.  I'll  say 
nothing  for  them ;  let  them  make  their  own  excuses. 
What,  to  burn  a  man  out  of  his  house  and  then  say 
'they  didn't  mean  it!  I'll  hear  no  such  nonsense." 

The  attitude  was  necessary  and  he  must  persist  in 
it.  As  the  resident  magistrate  upon  Bell  Island 
much  of  the  responsibility  for  last  night's  work 
must  fall  upon  his  shoulders — so  unwilling  to  bear 
responsibility  at  such  a  time.  For  the  women's 
tears  he  cared  not  at  all.  All  his  interest  lay  in  an 
attempt  to  excuse  himself  before  John  Canning,  and 
to  put  the  blame  on  other  shoulders.  This  might 
no:  be  difficult.  The  threats  of  eviction  would  win 
sympathy  in  England — he,  the  magistrate,  must 
knew  nothing  of  sympathy  but  only  of  the  law. 

231 


THH  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

And  so  he  returned  to  the  farm  to  find  Jesse 
there,  and  to  be  confronted  immediately  by  the  true 
story  of  the  night.  That  interview  between  father 
and  daughter  was  one  of  the  most  solemn  in 
Japhon's  story.  A  man  of  rugged  courage  in  com- 
mon affairs,  he  shrank  before  this  pale,  determined 
face,  could  not  look  boldly  into  the  accusing  eyes 
of  the  girl,  who  met  him  in  the  porch,  and  told  him 
in  a  few  simple  words  where  she  had  been,  and 
what  she  had  done. 

"I  saw  the  fire  kindled,  and  I  went  across  the 
down  to  see  what  they  were  doing,  father.  They 
meant  to  burn  the  house  down,  and  would  have 
done  it  but  for  Mr.  Blake  and  the  sailors.  Mr. 
Canning  says  that  I  saved  his  life,  but  I  don't  think 
that  is  true.  He  would  not  let  me  leave  the  house 
until  he  knew  that  it  was  safe  for  me  to  go.  I  could 
not  come  before,  father — I  am  sorry  if  you  are 
angry — but  I  could  not  come." 

Japhon  strode  into  the  house,  brushing  by  her 
rudely  and  bidding  her  follow  him.  In  the  little 
parlor,  when  he  had  shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  he 
pulled  a  vast  watch  from  his  fob  pocket  and  showed 
her  the  time. 

"Do  you  see  that,  girl — ten  o'clock  of  the  morn- 
ing? Now,  answer  me  a  plain  question.  What  were 
you  doing  in  this  man's  house  until  ten  o'clock  of 
the  morning?" 

232 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  was  asking  him  to  spare  the  people,  father." 

"To  spare  the  people!  God  in  heaven,  is  that 
the  tale?" 

"It  is  true,  father.  I  have  asked  Mr.  Canning 
to  let  the  poor  folk  have  their  cottages,  and  he  has 
consented  to  do  so." 

"You  asked  him — you — and  he  consented?" 

"He  has  promised  me  that  if  they  will  behave 
themselves,  he  will  not  send  them  away.  We  must 
see  that  they  do  so,  we  must  tell  them,  you  and  I, 
father." 

"A  likely  story;  and  for  that  you  left  my  house 
against  my  orders  and  went  to  this  man's  door? 
Well,  suppose  I  show  you  mine  to-day — will  he  take 
you  back  again,  will  he  harbor  such  a  woman?  Go 
you  and  ask  him  and  see  what  he.  says." 

She  shrank  at  the  word,  shrank  as  though  he  had 
struck  her  a  blow. 

"If  I  leave  your  house,"  she  said  quietly,  "it  will 
not  be  to  go  to  Mr.  Canning,  or  ever  to  return  to 
you  again  as  long  as  I  am  alive." 

"Ay,  ay,  the  old  story — I've  done  you  a  wrong 
— been  a  bad  father  to  you — I  know  it  all — heard  it 
from  your  mother  many  a  time.  Now  I'll  ask  you 
this,  do  you  mean  to  marry  this  man  or  don't  you 
— and  marrying  him  do  you  understand  what 
you're  doing?  I  want  to  know  that,  Jesse — it's  my 
duty  to  know  it.  Do  you  mean  to  marry  him?" 

233 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  do  not,  father — marriage  with  Mr.  Canning  is 
out  of  the  question.  He  has  told  me  so." 

"Oh,  then  you've  talked  it  over,  I  see.  And 
that's  the  man  in  whose  house  you've  been  since 
midnight  yesterday — God  in  heaven,  that  I  must 
listen  to  you." 

Jesse  sat  down  quietly  in  a  seat  by  the  window 
and  folded  her  hands  upon  her  lap. 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,  father, 
or  I  would  leave  you  at  once.  Mr.  Canning  will 
not  marry  me  because  he  thinks  it  would  be  wrong 
to  do  so — but  I  would  marry  him  to-day  if  he  asked 
me.  I  went  to  his  house  to  do  what  you  should  have 
done — you  know  it,  and  will  be  glad  because  I  went. 
But  I  shall  never  forgive  you  for  what  you  have 
said  to  me  to-day,  and  I  shall  leave  your  house  upon 
the  first  opportunity." 

"Leave  me!  Ah,  we'll  see  about  that!  Perhaps 
I'll  teach  you  both  a  lesson  before  you  get  as  far. 
Now  go  to  your  room,  girl — do  you  hear  me  ? — get 
to  your  bedroom  and  leave  it  when  I  bid  you.  If 
you  don't,  as  sure  as  there's  a  God  in  heaven,  I'll 
lay  my  whip  on  your  shoulders." 

She  rose  immediately,  but  did  not  answer  a  single 
word,  while  he  opened  the  door  and  followed  her 
up  the  narrow  stairs  to  her  bedroom  above,  locking 
her  in  with  his  own  hands  and  thrusting  the  key  into 
a  capacious  pocket.  For  the  time  being  Japhon 

234 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Fearney  had  lost  touch  both  with  common  sense 
and  with  common  prudence.  Full  well  he  knew  that 
every  spoken  word  had  been  a  crime  against  truth 
and  against  his  child.  There  had  been  nothing 
wrong  in  her  visit  to  the  Castle.  Chagrin  and  bit- 
ter disappointment  were  at  the  back  of  all  his  ac- 
cusations. That  this  salvation  for  the  islanders 
should  come  by  Jesse's  hands;  that  he,  Japhon, 
should  have  no  part  in  it — above  all  that  the  sep- 
aration between  the  two  houses  should  be  final  and 
irrevocable — there  was  a  pretty  day's  work!  And 
be  sure  he  understood  that  John  Canning  was  not 
the  man  to  keep  such  a  secret  as  this.  Would  he 
not  tell  all  the  world,  "I  have  spared  the  people  for 
Jesse  Fearney's  sake?"  Of  course  he  would.  And 
they  would  be  at  Jesse's  feet  in  consequence — 
while  he,  Japhon,  must  win  nothing  but  their  con- 
tempt— and  if  he  held  them  to  account  for  last 
night's  work,  their  overt  anger.  He  could  see  no 
alternative — the  more  he  thought  upon  it  the  wilder 
his  anger  became,  the  more  unreasonable  his  per- 
sistency. 

Should  he  see  John  Canning  for  himself  and  en- 
deavor to  come  to  a  better  understanding?  He 
pondered  this  long  during  the  day,  arriving  at  no 
settled  resolution  until  sundown,  and  then  but  half 
determined  in  his  purpose.  If  he  offered  this  man 
Jesse  to  wife,  the  concession  might  make  an  end  of 

235 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

all  their  difficulties.  And  why  not?  Did  he, 
Japhon,  really  care,  he  who  stood  on  the  brink  of 
prison  himself?  Why  had  he  paid  so  much  heed  to 
the  fisherfolk  and  their  prejudices?  Fool,  fool — he 
said — and,  upon  this,  asked  himself  the  question,  Is 
it  yet  too  late  ?  He  would  go  to  the  Castle  and  have 
it  out  with  John  Canning.  He  could  beg  Jesse's 
pardon  afterward,  when  he  came  to  tell  her  what  he 
had  done.  That,  surely,  would  be  good  news — for 
he  did  not  doubt  that  she  loved  the  Englishman  and 
would  marry  no  other. 

So  it  befell  that,  with  no  word  to  his  daughter 
at  all,  he  took  up  his  hat  about  six  o'clock  of  the 
evening,  and  set  out  across  the  down  toward  the 
heights  and  the  Castle  gate.  The  sun  had  just  set 
over  the  ocean  then,  but  the  sky  was  afire  with  a 
rich  afterglow,  which  had  the  shape  of  a  mighty 
baldachino  uplifted  above  the  eternal  altar  of  the 
universe — a  heaven  of  radiance  and  of  spreading 
lights,  which  declared  the  ships  beneath  as  flecks  of 
white  upon  an  unbroken  waste  of  golden  waters. 
Westward  it  was  nearly  dark,  and  there  were  lights 
already  at  the  pier  head,  and  in  some  of  the  cot- 
tages; but  Japhon  took  little  notice  of  these,  or,  if 
he  espied  them,  reflected  sadly  upon  his  next  appear- 
ance among  the  people  and  the  humiliations  which 
must  attend  it.  As  he  drew  nearer  to  the  Castle 


236 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

gate,  he  was  surprised  to  discover  the  whole  build- 
ing plunged  in  profound  darkness;  and  when  at 
length  he  rang  the  great  bell,  the  evidences  of  last 
night's  work  confronted  him  all  too  plainly.  Yes, 
there  had  been  madness  here,  and  some  one  would 
have  to  give  a  fair  account  of  it — for  he  was  not 
willing  to  accept  Jesse's  account,  nor  could  he  be- 
lieve that  such  a  man  as  John  Canning  would  for- 
give the  people  so  readily. 

Now  old  Martin  answered  the  bell,  and  he  an- 
swered it  shyly — opening  the  wicket  first  and  ask- 
ing in  a  rasping  voice,  "Who  is  it  ?"  When  Japhon 
replied,  curtly  and  with  the  voice  of  authority,  he 
did  not  find  the  old  man  ready  to  bend  the  knee  to 
him  or  to  pay  him  any  civility  whatsoever. 

"Ay,  it  be  Mr.  Fearney  all  right.  Well,  master, 
we  were  wanting  you  last  night.  'Tain't  like 
Japhon  Fearney  to  be  one  day  after  the  fair, 
surely?" 

"Hold  your  tongue,  man — I  didn't  come  here  for 
your  opinions." 

"Ay,  but  you'll  get  'em  all  the  same,  Mr.  Fear- 
ney— there  ain't  no  law  as  I  knows  on  which  jumps 
at  a  man's  head  for  his  opinions.  You've  been  a 
precious  sight  of  time  coming,  I  must  say,  and  now 
you  be  come,  there  won't  be  many  to  cry  their  eyes 
out  over  it.  Is  it  anything  I  can  do  for  ye,  Mr. 


337 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Fearney?  Don't  you  mind  asking  me,  because  I 
shan't  mind  answerin'  you — so  there'll  be  no  bad 
blood  between  us." 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  your  master — to  Mr.  Can- 
ning. Go  you  and  tell  him  that  I  am  at  the  door." 

"Then  I'll  be  wanting  a  boat,  Mr.  Fearney.  Mas- 
ter's gone  to  Lunnon — you'd  have  seen  his  yacht  in 
the  Strait  if  you'd  eyes  in  your  head — gone  to  Lon- 
don with  the  flood.  You'd  better  be  writing  him, 
Mr.  Fearney.  You're  a  wonder  at  the  writing  as  all 
the  island  knows." 

Japhon  turned  away  with  a  snarl.  What  a  fool 
he  had  been  to  come  at  all — and  how  blind!  Sure 
enough,  as  he  went  down  the  hillside,  he  made  out 
the  yacht's  lanterns  creeping  in  a  black  wake  to  the 
mainland  and  obscurity,  and  he  understood  in  a 
flash  that  all  his  fine  house  of  cards  was  down,  and 
that  nothing  but  a  miracle  would  rebuild  it. 

Ay,  who  w^juld  summon  John  Canning  to  Bell 
Island  again?  What  hope  would  bring  such  a  man 
to  such  a  place?  Had  he  not  come  here  to  escape  a 
censorious  world,  and  had  not  a  miniature  of  that 
world  received  him?  Even  a  woman's  love  would 
not  prevail  against  that  chivalry  with  which  Japhon 
Fearney  could  accredit  him  now.  He  had  gone 
from  Jesse  and  her  people,  not  because  he  believed 
himself  unworthy  of  her  affections,  but  because  he 


238 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

knew  that  the  world  had  stamped  him  as  unworthy. 
And  here  Japhon  perceived  the  strength  and  intent 
of  sacrifice,  and  could  bow  the  knee  to  it.  How  far 
above  his  own  puny  schemes  was  all  this,  how  alien 
from  his  own  modes  of  thought  and  feeling  I  He 
would  have  cared  nothing  for  the  world's  opinion, 
he  said,  and  yet,  in  truth,  he  had  never  cared  so 
much. 

He  watched  the  disappearing  steamer,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  the  years  of  his  finer  man- 
hood were  carried  away  in  some  phantom  ship,  to 
leave  him  old  and  broken  and  decrepit.  What  story 
could  he  carry  to  Jesse  now?  What  had  he  to  offer 
her  in  this  hour  of  her  tribulation?  Could  he  tell 
her  that  he  had  gone  to  the  Castle  for  her  sake, 
humiliated  himself  at  her  nod?  Candor,  defying 
him,  laughed  at  the  fabrication  and  whispered  a 
truer  word  in  his  ear.  Candor  also  bade  him  look 
seaward  once  more,  and  ask  himself  what  ship  it 
was  which  now  made  for  the  harbor,  and  would 
put  its  passengers  ashore  before  half  an  hour  had 
passed.  This  was  no  boat  from  Canning's  yacht 
surely — nay,  it  was  a  little  lugger  whose  shape  was 
as  well  known  to  Japhon  Fearney  as  that  of  his  own 
lugger. 

"Holly  Angus'  boat,"  he  said,  and  saying  it  he 
began  to  shiver  as  a  man  with  an  ague. 


239 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

For  what  new  portent  of  disaster  was  this — what 
news  to  drive  the  blood  from  his  face  and  send  him 
headlong  toward  the  farm — a  trembling  old  man 
about  whose  path  the  shadows  of  disaster  were  clos- 
ing? 


240 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   MESSENGER 

THE  lugger  put  into  the  northern  cove,  steered 
by  one  who  knew  Bell  Island  and  the  channels  about 
it.  There  were  but  two  aboard  the  little  boat  and 
one  was  a  slim  lad,  not  much  more  than  eighteen 
years  of  age.  He,  however,  appeared  to  be  the  mas- 
ter, and  giving  curt  directions  to  the  other,  an  old 
boatman  from  Bide  ford,  he  set  out  at  once  for  the 
farm  and  was  closeted  with  Japhon  Fearney  before 
half  an  hour  had  passed. 

Now  this  was  a  strange  interview,  a  sorry  chapter 
of  a  swift  drama  such  as  Japhon  Fearney  with  all 
his  apprehensions  had  never  believed  that  he  would 
be  called  upon  to  take  part  in.  For  who  was  this 
slip  of  a  lad  but  young  Willie  Snarth,  the  son  of 
Holly  Angus'  aforetime  partner,  and  now  a  clerk  in 
that  very  office  at  Barnstaple  which  Japhon  had  vis- 
ited so  stealthily?  And  what  other  object  had  he  but 
to  speak  of  great  happenings;  but  chiefly  of  an  ar- 
rest and  its  sequel — and  of  all  that  sequel  might 
mean  to  the  agitated  old  man  before  him?  This  he 

241 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

told  in  a  few  words — a  boy's  words,  plain  and  out- 
spoken, but  very  sensitive  to  the  opportunities. 

"I  came  at  once,  Mr.  Fearney — you  should  know 
before  all  others.  They  arrested  Mr.  Angus  at 
three  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Lucky  the  wind  was 
right  or  I  wouldn't  be  here  now.  I  tell  you  it  has 
been  a  dreadful  day  for  me." 

Japhon  gasped  for  something,  he  knew  not  what. 
His  hands  were  shaking  so  that  he  feared  even  to 
help  himself  to  brandy  from  the  decanter  in  the 
sideboard. 

"They  arrested  Mr.  Angus?  Good  God,  lad!  are 
you  dreaming?  What  have  they  arrested  him  for?" 

"For  smuggling  saccharin  into  England — that's 
the  first  charge,  Mr.  Fearney,  but  there  are  others." 

"Others — what  others  ?" 

Here  was  an  honest  question.  Japhon  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  the  charge  would  be  for  smuggling 
saccharin  into  England,  but  that  there  should  be 
others  amazed  him. 

"Oh,  it's  difficult  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Fearney.  But 
I  think  it's  a  question  of  bills  and  fraud." 

"What  bills  has  he  been  doin'  then — what  need 
was  there  for  such  as  him  to  defraud  anybody? 
You're  speaking  truth,  lad — eh,  you've  not  come 
here  to  fool  me?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fearney,  why  should  I  do  that?    Have 


242 


'THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

I  anything  to  gain  by  it  ?  I  came  because  I  thought 
I  ought  to  do  so — I  came  to  warn  you." 

"Me — do  they  say  I've  been  doing  bills,  then? 
Is  that  the  tale?  God  in  heaven,  what  next?" 

Young  Snarth  settled  comfortably  in  his  chair 
and  watched  the  old  man,  who  now  threw  all  dis- 
guise to  the  winds,  and  going  with  tottering  steps  to 
the  sideboard,  mixed  himself  a  stiff  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  and  drank  it  at  a  gulp.  Here  was  a  battle 
between  youth  and  age,  a  battle  of  argle-bargle  and 
cunning — and  the  lad  was  to  win  all  the  way. 

"They  say  that  you  were  Mr.  Angus'  partner, 
Mr.  Fearney.  I  know  it  because  my  brother  is  a 
great  friend  of  Inspector  Bent  and  had  it  from  him. 
They  say  that  you  were  a  partner  in  the  firm,  and 
that  a  deed  has  been  found  to  prove  it." 

"It's  a  lie— a  black  lie." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — you  forget  that  I  was 
a  clerk  in  the  office." 

"Then  you've  been  spying  on  us — d — n  you, 
you've  been  spying  on  us.  What  I  put  my  name  to 
was  a  document  that  we  went  partners  in  the  stuff 
which  came  ashore.  You  know  it,  young  Snarth 
— why  do  you  stand  there  telling  me  those  lies? — 
you  know  I  was  not  his  partner?" 

"Indeed,  I  know  very  little,  sir.  Of  course  I  had 
some  idea  that  your  boats  were  bringing  in  sac- 


243 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

charin  and  that  you  were  making  a  great  deal  of 
money  by  it,  but  what  your  arrangement  was  with 
Mr.  Angus,  I  didn't  know  at  all — upon  my  word 
and  honor,  I  did  not." 

Japhon  stood  to  wipe  his  brow — his  thoughts 
came  and  went  as  a  surge  of  terror  and  apprehen- 
sion upon  which  all  right  reason  was  to  be  wrecked. 
He  knew  not  what  to  say.  Had  this  lad  come  to 
him  with  the  simple  story  of  the  smuggled  saccha- 
rin, he  might,  at  least,  have  played  a  creditable  part 
— but  this  darker  story,  this  woeful  menace,  how 
should  he  answer  that  ?  He  knew  not — his  protests 
were  not  renewed  and  his  voice  dropped  to  a  mere 
whisper. 

"At  what  time  do  you  say  they  arrested  Mr. 
Angus?" 

"About  three  o'clock." 

"Did  they  mention  my  name  then?" 

"No,  sir — not  then — but  my  brother  says  they  are 
coming  for  you  to-night." 

"Let  them  come — I  shall  have  my  answer — let 
them  tell  what  lies  they  please — I  shall  know  how  to 
defend  myself." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Kearney;  but  Inspector 
Bent  thinks  you  have  no  defence." 

"He  would  say  that — the  police  always  say  it.  I 
must  leave  this  place,  lad — I  must  get  away — to 
England." 

244 


"I  think  so,  Mr.  Fearney — you  would  be  very 
wise  to  go  while  you  have  time.  If  you  trust  to  me, 
I  will  help  you." 

"You,  lad — what  can  you  do  for  me?" 

"I  can  show  you  how  to  get  to  France  to-night 
— there's  just  time  if  you  will  go — but,  of  course, 
I  shall  want  money." 

Japhon  looked  up  swiftly.  Money!  Had  this 
mere  lad  come  here  to  blackmail  him  then?  Then 
all  his  avaricious  instinct  was  awakened  in  an  in- 
stant. Money!  Must  he  buy  a  fool's  tale  and  re- 
pent it  afterward?  Oh,  be  sure  'twould  need  a 
clever  fellow  to  get  money  out  of  him. 

"You  want  money,  boy — did  you  come  here  for 
that?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Why  should  I  come  otherwise?  I  have 
something  to  sell  to  you  and  I  want  money  for  it." 

"You  are  a  clever  lad — I  should  have  remembered 
what  such  as  Holly  Angus  would  have  taught  you 
— how  much  money  do  you  want  ?" 

"A  hundred  pounds,  sir." 

"Suppose  you're  telling  me  a  lie — suppose  it's  all 
wrong — what  then?" 

"It  is  not  a  lie — it's  the  only  way  you  can  escape 
the  police.  Please  answer  me  quickly — there  is  no 
time  to  lose." 

"Tell  me  what  you  know,  and  I  will  give  you  the 
money  afterward." 

245 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Oh,  indeed,  no — I  am  a  little  sharper  than  that, 
Mr.  Fearney." 

"Well,  I  warn  you — if  it's  false,  I'll  have  it  back 
from  you — as  the  Lord  hears  me  I'll  do  you  an  in- 
jury if  you're  fooling  me." 

"You  shall  be  the  judge  of  that  afterward,  Mr. 
Fearney — come,  please  be  quick  or  I  shall  go." 

"Do  you  think  I  carry  that  much  money  about  in 
my  hat?  You're  little  better  than  a  fool.  Be  pa- 
tient— I'll  deal  fairly  by  you." 

He  shuffled  about  the  room,  tortured  by  the  di- 
lemma, as  unwilling  to  pay  this  tribute  as  any  miser 
whom  danger  had  enveloped.  All  his  reason  said 
the  youth  was  honest — all  his  desire  would  have 
made  him  out  to  be  a  liar. 

"There's  a  hundred  pound  in  banknotes  there; 
now  tell  me  what  you  have  to  say." 

"I  beg  your  pardon — there  are  just  sixty  pounds 
here." 

"D — n  you,  will  you  have  my  life's  blood — I'll 
not  hear  a  word — give  me  my  money !" 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Fearney — there  it  is." 

Snarth  tossed  the  notes  upon  the  table  and  took 
up  his  hat.  He  knew  full  well  that  the  man  would 
not  let  him  go,  and  was  not  mistaken.  With  a  howl 
of  rage  and  real  misery,  Fearney  tossed  a  further 
roll  of  notes  upon  the  table. 


246 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"Speak/'  he  cried — "speak  before  I  do  you  a  mis- 
chief." 

Snarth  picked  up  the  banknotes,  rolled  them  up, 
and  thrust  them  into  his  breast  pocket.  Then  he 
spoke,  slowly  and  with  emphasis. 

"The  Count  will  lie  off  the  Galland  Rock  for 
twenty-four  hours  from  noon  to-morrow.  We 
cabled  him  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  had  an 
answer  last  night.  The  code  says  twenty-four 
hours,  just  inside  the  twenty-fathom  line — I  read  it 
myself." 

Japhon  stood  quite  still  to  hear  the  message,  and 
for  some  minutes  after  it  was  spoken.  These  two 
had  been  talking  most  of  the  time  in  the  dark,  and 
not  so  much  as  a  candle  had  been  kindled  until  the 
money  was  fetched.  Its  light  flickered  upon  strange 
faces — that  of  a  boy  who  had  no  fear,  and  of  a 
man  who  feared  greatly,  but  had  just  been  taught 
to  temper  fear  by  hope.  In  a  twinkling  now, 
Japhon  understood  why  young  Snarth  had  come  to 
him  and  the  extent  of  the  service  he  had  done.  A 
hundred  pounds — he  would  have  paid  five  for  such 
tidings. 

"Then  Angus  meant  to  show  'em  a  clean  pair  of 
heels,  eh?"  he  asked  presently. 

Snarth  said  that  it  was  so. 

"And  Count  Gabriel  is  waiting  for  him  off  Gal- 


247 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

land  Rock.  They  would  have  run  for  the  Scheldt, 
I  suppose?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you  that,  Mr.  Kearney.  But  the 
Count  is  clever.  Once  aboard  his  launch  you  won't 
need  to  think  twice  about  Mr.  Moss.  But  you'll  see 
that  there  isn't  much  time  to  lose." 

"Are  they  watching  in  the  Channel,  think  you?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you — I  saw  nothing  as  we  came 
across." 

"I  could  stop  in  Belgium  a  while  and  make  my 
position  clear.  I'm  no  partner  of  Angus' — the  trial 
will  make  that  plain.  Let  'em  fine  me  a  thousand 
for  getting  the  saccharin  in  if  they  like.  I  shan't  be 
called  upon  to  pay  it  in  Belgium." 

"Then  I  advise  you  to  put  to  sea  at  once.  For 
myself  I  must  get  back — it  would  never  do  for  them 
to  miss  me,  Mr.  Fearney." 

"Go  as  you  say,  lad — and  keep  the  money.  I'll 
never  ask  you  for  that  again." 

Snarth  replied  that  he  supposed  not.  He  had  got 
what  he  wanted  and  had  no  cause  to  linger.  Their 
parting  was  commonplace  and  abrupt.  This  old 
man,  with  all  his  fears  and  his  uncouth  gestures  and 
the  terror  which  animated  every  movement,  af- 
frighted the  mere  lad  who  had  come  there  to  save 
him.  Snarth  hardly  breathed  freely  until  he  gained 
the  creek  and  the  open  sea.  Yes,  it  had  been  a 
clever  move  and  he  did  not  care  twopence  now  what 

248 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

became  of  Japhon  Fearney.  The  hundred  pounds 
were  safe  in  his  pocket — a  lad  of  eighteen  can  do 
much  with  a  hundred  pounds. 

And  so  he  hoisted  sail,  and  getting  by  the  dan- 
gerous reef,  stood  out  for  the  mainland  and  the 
river.  The  night  had  fallen  black,  dark  and  moon- 
less, and  the  wind  was  blowing  half  a  gale  already. 
He  espied  few  ships  upon  the  hither  waters;  none 
which  he  suspected.  Whatever  the  authorities  had 
learned  about  Japhon  Fearney,  this  was  not  the 
night  for  it  to  be  declared. 

"The  old  rogue  will  get  across,"  Snarth  said  to 
himself;  "will  he  take  his  daughter  with  him?" 

And  that,  oddly  enough,  was  the  very  question 
which  Japhon  asked  himself  at  that  very  moment. 


249 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JAPHON  SAILS  FOR  HOLLAND 

JAPHON  closed  the  door  upon  Willie  Snarth  and 
stood  for  a  little  while  in  the  hall,  debating  what 
he  should  do.  The  evidences  of  a  night  of  wind 
and  rising  sea,  which  he  had  espied  from  the  shel- 
ter of  the  porch,  cheered  the  man  and  put  heart  into 
him.  He  was  a  fine  sailor  and  feared  neither  storm 
nor  tempest.  The  keen  northwesterly  breeze,  fresh- 
ening every  instant,  would  help  his  flight — for  upon 
flight  he  was  determined. 

Stealthily  and  with  chosen  steps,  he  re-entered  the 
parlor  and  began  to  search  his  bureau.  Compro- 
mising papers  he  did  not  fear.  His  native  shrewd- 
ness had  always  dreaded  correspondence,  and  he 
preferred  at  any  time  to  sail  across  to  the  mainland 
rather  than  to  write  a  letter.  None  the  less  there 
were  certain  documents — his  will,  the  title  deeds  of 
the  farm,  but  above  all  his  store  of  greasy  bank- 
notes, hoarded  against  such  an  emergency  as  this, 
which  claimed  his  first  attention.  These  he  scruti- 
nized carefully,  and  setting  twenty  pounds  of  the 

250 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

money  apart,  he  rolled  the  notes  in  an  oilskin  bag 
and  thrust  them  into  his  pocket. 

What  should  he  say  to  Jesse?  This  had  been  in 
his  mind  from  the  first,  though  his  own  condition 
and  its  perils  made  light  of  the  lesser  responsibility. 
Like  all  guilty  men,  Japhon  believed  that  he  would 
be  absent  from  his  home  but  a  little  while;  that  he 
would  return  in  some  way  vindicated,  and  that  all 
his  affairs  must  be  regulated  upon  that  belief.  So 
now  it  seemed  a  lighter  thing  to  frame  excuses.  He 
was  called  to  Holland  on  urgent  business.  Jesse 
must  manage  the  place  while  he  was  away,  look 
after  the  farm  and  the  hands — make  herself  mis- 
tress in  the  master's  absence.  The  very  words  of  it 
were  mumbled  as  he  moved  from  room  to  room, 
packing  a  few  shabby  clothes  here,  getting  his  great- 
coat there — poking  into  empty  drawers;  trying  to 
think  of  a  hundred  things,  but  thinking  of  none 
save  those  which  concerned  flight.  Had  not  the  lad 
reminded  him  that  the  time  was  short?  Good  God! 
they  might  come  for  him  at  any  hour. 

He  listened  to  every  sound,  to  the  moan  of  the 
wind  about  the  farm;  to  the  footsteps  of  the  girl 
who  moved  furtively  about  the  kitchen ;  even  to  the 
beating  of  his  own  heart.  Now,  for  a  truth,  this 
interview  with  Jesse  began  to  appear  a  formidable 
thing.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  speak  so  harshly 
to  the  girl!  She  was  not  one  to  be  won  by  hard 

251 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

words,  and  well  he  knew  how  small  is  their  worth 
when  women  are  concerned,  for  her  mother  had 
taught  him  the  lesson.  Much  better  to  have  been 
discreet,  as  prudence  had  prompted  him  to  be.  He 
must  pay  the  penalty  for  that  outbreak,  abase  him- 
self and  crave  forgiveness.  Well,  well,  that  was  a 
bitter  night,  and  lamentations  upon  past  acts  would 
not  make  it  better. 

He  took  a  candle  and  crept  up  the  narrow  stairs, 
pausing  often  to  choose  his  words,  and  yet  con- 
scious of  the  need  of  haste.  A  gentle  knock  upon 
the  heavy  oak  door  obtaining  no  answer,  he  beat 
loudly  for  a  reply — for  his  fears  already  alarmed 
him  and  permitted  him  to  guess  the  worst. 

"Jesse — I'm  coming  in  to  see  you,  girl — I  must 
have  a  word  before  I  go."  It  would  prepare  her,  he 
thought,  to  speak  of  departure,  and  he  laid  emphasis 
upon  the  word.  When  the  effort  proved  vain,  he 
unlocked  the  door  clumsily  and  raised  the  candle 
high  to  peer  within.  There  was  no  one  there.  Not 
at  the  first  or  even  at  the  second  glance  would  he 
believe  the  trutti;  but  he  came  to  believe  it  pres- 
ently, and  stumbling  from  the  place,  his  brain  on 
fire,  his  lips  shaping  unspoken  words,  he  said  that 
Jesse  had  done  as  he  dared  her  to  do  and  had  left 
his  house. 

Oh,  be  sure,  this  was  the  crowning  hour  of  that 
night  of  misfortunes.  Whatever  his  sins,  Japhon 

252 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Fearney  loved  his  daughter — loved  her  with  that 
uncouth  affection  which  pays  no  tribute  in  words, 
but  many  in  deeds ;  which  is  rarely  remembered,  but 
ever  present — an  affection  brutelike  in  its  elemen- 
tary virtues,  but  not  wholly  selfish  at  its  source. 
And  she  had  deserted  him — he  must  leave  his  home 
without  one  word  to  the  child  he  loved;  without 
even  the  knowledge  that  his  anger  had  earned  no 
graver  penalty  than  her  flight.  How  if  she  had 
killed  herself?  It  might  even  be  that,  he  said,  as 
he  staggered  into  the  kitchen  and  began  to  ques- 
tion the  terror-stricken  maid.  She  might  have  left 
him,  not  for  the  hour,  but  forever.  Jesse  came  of 
a  headstrong  race — who  would  answer  for  her  in  a 
moment  of  hysteria  which  injustice  had  provoked? 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Jesse?" 

"Oh,  master,  master " 

"Have  you  seen  her.  I  ask?  Don't  lie  to  me,  I 
will  be  answered." 

"She  left  the  house  an  hour  ago,  sir — I  heard 
her — I  think  it  was  Mr.  Blake  who  took  her." 

"You  think — slut.  Did  I  not  bid  you  tell  me 
what  happened?" 

"I  couldn't,  sir — I  couldn't  say  a  word  against 
Miss  Jesse." 

"Who's  asking  you  that  ?  Hold  your  tongue  and 
wipe  your  eyes.  I'm  going  away,  Hannah — I  must 
go  away  to-night  now — I'll  be  away  a  week;  per- 

253 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

haps  a  month.  Let  Miss  Jesse  understand  that — • 
perhaps  a  month." 

The  girl  ceased  to  cry,  and  regarded  him  \vith 
open  eyes. 

"You  going  away,  master?  Oh,  Miss  Jesse  will 
be  surprised  to  hear  that." 

"I  shall  write  a  letter  to  her.  See  that  she  has  it 
directly  she  comes  back — do  you  hear?  Miss  Jesse, 
and  no  other.  If  any  one  comes  from  the  main- 
land, you  don't  know  where  I  am — eh,  girl,  have 
you  the  sense  to  understand  that? — you  don't  know 
where  I  am  or  when  I  shall  be  back." 

"Oh,  master — how  strange  you  talk  to-night. 
Of  course  I  understand  it." 

"Then  hold  your  tongue  and  I'll  give  you  a  sov- 
ereign when  I  come  home — eh,  Hannah? — that's 
something  you  can  make  head  and  tail  of — a  sov- 
ereign when  I  come  home." 

He  jested  as  a  man  who  has  lost  all  and  aban- 
doned himself  to  anything  that  fortune  may  have  to 
send  him.  Jesse's  flight  did  not  trouble  him  now. 
She  had  gone  off  with  that  sailor  lad — well,  she 
must  be  her  own  protector  henceforth — and  after 
all,  the  day  comes  sooner  or  later  when  every  man's 
daughter  must  be  the  arbiter  of  her  honor  and  her 
fortunes.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Japhon  was 
pleased  with  what  Hannah  had  to  tell  him.  He 


254 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

could  leave  without  let  or  hindrance  now,  and  ten 
minutes  had  not  passed  before  he  was  out  on  the 
down  with  his  bundle;  a  bent  old  man  whose  heart 
warmed  to  the  spirit  of  the  contest;  whose  courage 
rose  as  his  difficulties  accumulated. 

It  had  been  a  merry  game  and  this  was  the  end  of 
it.  Three  years  ago  that  clever  rogue,  Holly  An- 
gus, learned  by  chance  that  the  profits  on  smuggled 
saccharin  are  fifty-fold  those  upon  any  other  pos- 
sible commodity.  He  got  in  touch  with  Count  Ga- 
briel Lacombe,  of  Antwerp,  and  with  Japhon  Fear- 
ney,  of  Bell  Island.  They  brought  the  stuff  from 
Antwerp  by  steamer,  and  shipped  it  in  small  quanti- 
ties upon  one  of  Japhon's  boats — taking  advantage 
of  black  nights  and  of  the  old  farmer's  honest  repu- 
tation. He  would  hide  the  stuff  and  get  it  into 
Barnstaple,  a  hundred  tricks  helping  him.  Often  it 
went  nested  in  trusses  of  hay;  sometimes  it  would 
come  in  the  machinery  of  husbandry,  sent  over 
nominally  for  repairs,  but  in  reality  to  carry  sac- 
charin. Old  pianos,  bureaus,  even  common  travel- 
ing bags,  were  employed  in  a  similar  service,  for 
who  would  suspect  old  Japhon,  and  why  should  the 
Devon  Customs  be  associating  him  with  such  a  rare 
commodity?  Possibly,  if  they  thought  about  it  at 
all,  they  would  have  said  that  he  did  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  And  he  and  Angus  were 


255 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

laughing  in  their  sleeves  all  the  time,  making  hun- 
dreds at  the  business,  defying  the  risks  of  extreme 
penalties  and  of  prison. 

And  now  it  was  all  done  with,  and  that  very 
Count  Gabriel,  whose  ship  had  so  often  run  the 
stuff  over  from  Holland,  came  once  more  upon  a 
work  of  mercy.  This  had  been  his  promise  from 
the  beginning.  "If  anything  goes  wrong,"  he  had 
said,  "I  will  hide  you  all  in  Belgium  until  the  storm 
blows  over — and  you  can  make  your  peace  with  the 
police  afterward."  This  promise  he  was  about  to 
keep  as  his  message  bore  witness;  and  if  Japhon 
admitted  that  neither  he  nor  Angus  would  have 
kept  it,  he  could  yet  say,  nevertheless,  that  the  Count 
was  a  man  of  honor. 

"I'll  lie  a  month  in  Belgium  while  old  Lawyer 
Harper  works  for  me,"  he  argued.  "If  Angus 
goes  to  penal  servitude,  that's  no  reason  why  I 
should.  They  can't  prove  that  I  was  his  partner, 
and  if  they  do  they  can't  say  I  had  any  of  the 
money.  A  month  should  see  me  safe,  and  after  that 
I  can  begin  to  think  of  life  at  home  again.  This'll 
blow  over  if  it's  managed  properly.  They'll  for- 
give me  for  the  stuff  if  I  can  prove  to  'em  I'm  hon- 
est." 

He  liked  the  reasoning,  and  it  was  shrewd.  Bell 
Island  would  overloom  the  lesser  offence  if  the 
greater  were  not  brought  home  to  him.  Perhaps 

256 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Japhon  himself  did  not  quite  understand  how  in- 
extricably his  affairs  were  mixed  up  with  those  of 
Holly  Angus,  and  how  sure  were  the  prospects  of 
conviction.  He  had  not  had  any  of  the  baser  money, 
it  is  true — but  that  was  a  fact  even  his  own  lawyer 
could  not  prove;  and,  failing  proof,  an  adverse  ver- 
dict was  assured.  If  he  fled  to-night,  he  fled  be- 
cause of  uncertainty  and  for  a  reason  equally  po- 
tent. The  supreme  dread  of  his  life  had  been  the 
Law,  its  meshes,  its  costs,  its  dangers.  Prison  stood 
to  him  for  an  unnamable  infamy,  a  place  where 
men  were  starved  and  flogged  and  crushed.  And 
from  prison  he  was  flying — out  to  the  darkness  of 
the  sea,  and  to  those  unknown  waters  which  stood 
to  this  ignorant  old  man  for  the  very  fables  of  the 
half-decked  boat,  small  and  handy  and  familiar.  It 
was  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to  warp  her  from 
her  moorings  and  get  her  into  the  open  channel. 
He  would  carry  no  lights  nor  trouble  about  provi- 
sions, but  he  took  a  great  flask  of  rum  and  put  a 
flare  into  the  boat  in  case  there  should  be  the  need 
to  signal.  A  rising  sea  delighted  him,  and  he  prom- 
ised himself  a  swift  run  to  the  Galland  Rock  and 
the  security  of  the  Count's  launch.  Once  aboard 
that  he  might  laugh  at  these  stories  of  policemen 
and  of  prisons,  laugh  at  what  the  world  might  say 
of  him,  go  his  way  among  a  strange  people,  un- 
known and  unremembered.  In  truth,  the  very  ex- 

257 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

citements  of  it  were  a  fine  mental  tonic  to  a  man 
who  had  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  upon  that 
lonely  island,  and  knew  the  world  no  better  than 
any  ancient  philosopher  drumming  a  theorem  in  an 
anchorite's  cell. 

He  warped  his  boat  into  the  Channel,  we  say, 
and  thence  to  the  open  sea.  The  island  protecting 
him  from  the  dangerous  northwesterly  wind,  the 
first  beginnings  of  his  voyage  were  altogether  to 
a  sailor's  liking,  for  he  ran  almost  before  the  steady 
breeze,  straight  down  the  length  of  Bell  Island  to 
the  great  lighthouse  at  its  southern  extremity. 
There  was  no  revenue  boat  here.  Well  he  knew 
the  shape  of  them;  often  had  his  old  eyes  searched 
them  out  when  Jo,  the  nigger,  and  Isaacson,  the 
Swede,  were  blind  to  any  sight  but  those  which 
years  had  made  familiar  to  them.  And  to-night  the 
sea  was  almost  destitute  of  ships — 'for  the  fishing 
boats  had  rounded  the  headland  for  safety,  or  were 
once  more  ensconced  in  their  own  welcome  harbor. 
Japhon  reflected  that  no  revenue  cutter  would  look 
for  work  upon  such  a  night,  and  pluming  himself 
upon  security,  he  came  at  length  to  the  headland 
and  the  open  sea — and  then  he  understood  in  an  in- 
stant the  perils  he  had  invited. 

Ay,  to  be  sure  this  was  no  landsman's  breeze — 
this  no  night  even  for  such  a  venture.  How  the 
great  rollers  surged  in  toward  the  distant  mainland ! 

258 


THH  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

How  they  thundered  already  upon  the  fateful  reefs ! 
Darkness  above  and  darkness  below — the  weird 
voices  of  storm  calling  him  as  with  a  witchery  of 
sirens;  the  wind  roaring  in  the  joy  of  tempest  and 
holocaust — and  upon  it  all  that  sense  of  despair,  of 
remoteness  from  a  human  aid  which  is  the  sailor's 
direst  experience.  Japhon  was  a  master  of  seaman- 
ship, but  never  did  he  remember  being  afloat  upon 
such  a  night  in  such  a  ship,  or  even  venturing  be- 
yond the  Pharos  when  the  dreaded  northwesterly 
winds  were  blowing  half  a  gale.  And  this  was  tem- 
pest, risen  with  tempestuous  treachery,  a  storm 
which  would  be  remembered  in  the  annals;  a  thing 
for  fathers  to  tell  their  children  in  the  years  which 
should  come  after. 

He  had  a  good  courage,  this  dour  old  man  flying 
from  unknown  perils,  and  it  did  not  desert  him  in 
this  hour.  If  there  were  moments  when  he  con- 
templated surrender  to  necessity,  and  an  attempt  to 
regain  the  Harbor  or  the  cove,  more  sober  reasoning 
told  him  that  such  return  was  impossible,  and  that 
even  the  river  and  the  mainland  were  beyond  his 
hopes  in  such  a  gale.  Even  if  it  were  done,  the 
greater  peril  stood  there,  for  what  kind  of  a  figure 
would  he  cut  walking  the  streets  of  Barnstaple,  and 
what  would  the  police  have  to  say  to  him  at  such  a 
time?  Arrest  upon  suspicion  could  be  the  lightest 
of  the  penalties,  and  after  arrest,  the  trial,  and,  it 

259 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

might  be,  the  judgment.  Japhon  determined  that 
whatever  befell  him  here  on  the  open  sea,  his  fate 
must  be  kinder  than  any  which  could  await  him  on 
shore.  And  this  thought  inspired  him  in  the  darkest 
hour.  He  would  run  south  before  the  gale,  and 
trust  to  pick  up  the  Count's  yacht  before  the  tem- 
pest drove  him  to  harborage.  Vain  delusion !  They 
were  already  signaling  his  predicament  from  the 
lighthouse,  and  the  rockets  at  the  pierhead  were 
calling  the  lifeboat  from  the  mainland. 

Japhon  saw  the  rockets  cleaving  the  black  sky 
and  tumbling  with  a  long-drawn  hiss  into  the  spume 
above  the  southern  rocks.  For  a  little  while,  he  did 
not  understand  that  his  own  peril  prompted  the 
men,  and  that  he  was  responsible  for  the  wailing 
blasts  now  set  up  by  the  siren  upon  Bell  Island,  or 
for  that  answering  light  from  the  river's  mouth, 
which  signaled  the  departure  of  the  lifeboat.  When 
he  did  so,  when  at  last  the  truth  came  home  to  him, 
the  very  irony  of  it  appalled  him  as  though  it  were 
a  judgment  of  Almighty  God.  To  be  taken  thus  in 
the  very  act  of  flight — to  be  dragged  from  the  har- 
boring seas  to  this  light  of  exposure  and  of  ridi- 
cule. Better  death  itself,  he  said,  and  none  the  less 
shrank  from  death  with  all  the  horror  which  a  sim- 
ple faith  had  nurtured  through  the  years. 

Here  upon  the  ocean  he  could  fight  his  battles 
alone,  peer  up  to  the  blackened  heaven  and  pray  for 

260 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

forgiveness — but  over  there,  amid  the  lights  and  the 
faces  of  men,  with  the  finger  of  scorn  pointed  at 
him,  what  hope  for  him  was  to  be  found  there? 
Despair  answered  none.  He  watched  the  trail  of 
the  rockets  as  though  the  very  fire  must  search  out 
hidden  infamies.  Not  a  guilty  man  in  the  graver 
sense,  conscious  but  of  vague  offences,  he  could 
complain  of  the  destiny  which  put  these  imagined 
charges  upon  him,  swear  to  Heaven  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  Angus'  wrongdoings  and  was  unable  to 
bear  a  new  burden  of  suspicion  and  of  peril.  Better 
by  far  that  the  end  should  be  here,  amid  the  black 
waters,  with  the  drone  of  the  surges  in  his  ears — 
better  that  the  sea  engulf  him  than  that  men  should 
say,  this  was  the  night  when  they  took  Japhon  Fear- 
ney,  the  felon. 

He  battled  with  the  thought,  rocked  in  the  hard 
cradle  of  temptation.  It  was  one  thing  to  boast  a 
resolution,  another  to  battle  with  these  monstrous 
waves  which  cast  up  the  boat  high  amid  showers  of 
blinding  spindrift,  or  hurled  it  headlong  into  the 
turbulent  abyss.  Let  his  courage  be  what  it  might, 
the  voice  of  ocean  could  yet  appall  it,  shrieking  with 
maddened  youth,  and  belaboring  his  ship  until  every 
timber  yawned  and  the  cabin  was  aflood.  Again 
and  again  must  he  lie  head  to  the  gale,  to  cheat  the 
whirlwind  of  waters  racing  after  him  in  mocking 
majesty,  or  boiling  about  the  trembling  ship  until 

261 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

her  very  shape  was  lost  in  their  embrace.  The  bit- 
ter cold,  the  dank  air  stupefied  his  brain  and  para- 
lyzed his  limbs.  He  watched  the  rockets  as  they 
soared  in  lines  of  crimson  fire,  and  began  to  think 
that  deliverance  were  better  at  any  price.  Lights 
upon  a  distant  horizon — the  lights  of  the  tug  which 
towed  the  lifeboat  from  her  moorings — spoke  of 
shelter  and  warmth  and  security.  And  he  was  an  old, 
old  man — grown  older  in  this  brief  hour  of  judg- 
ment and  the  penalty.  His  debt  was  paid,  he  said. 
Come  what  would,  the  Almighty  had  dealt  with  him, 
and  man's  reckoning  must  be  of  no  account. 


262 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THERE  IS  SOME  TALK  OF  PARIS  AND  THE  EAST 

IT  was  at  the  Carlton  Hotel,  some  ten  days  after 
Japhon  Fearney  sailed  for  Holland,  that  Ernest 
Hobby  confessed  his  views  upon  later-day  trage- 
dies as  performed  at  the  West  End  theatres. 

"I've  seen  three  of  them  in  four  days,  Canning," 
he  said,  "and  in  every  one  of  them  there  is  a  fool  of 
a  husband  whose  wife  wants  to  go  off  with  another 
man,  but  doesn't.  You  know  all  about  it  long  be- 
fore the  curtain  drops  on  the  first  act.  Jones  is  a 
millionaire  and  works  all  day.  Smith  is  an  artist, 
or  a  dilletante,  or  a  fool,  and  he  flirts  with  Mrs. 
Jones  in  her  husband's  absence  at  the  office.  Brown 
is  a  genial  person  who  will  save  Mrs.  Jones  at  the 
last  moment.  Now,  my  dear  Canning,  is  this  a  bit 
like  life?  Does  a  woman  really  dislike  the  man 
who  works  for  her  happiness,  and  are  there  so  many 
Browns  in  the  world  always  ready  to  save  these  la- 
dies from  the  rascally  Smiths?  I  can't  believe  it—- 
I've lived  a  good  many  years,  and  I  never  saw  the 
woman  who  disliked  a  man  just  because  he  was 
busy,  nor  have  I  come  across  the  amiable  meddler 

263 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

who  is  so  ready  to  discover  scandal  in  other  people's 
houses.  Surely  it's  nonsense — you  have  lived 
among  these  people  and  you  know." 

Canning  liked  the  simplicity  of  Hobby's  talk  and 
used  to  encourage  him  in  these  heresies.  They  had 
been  ten  days  at  the  Carlton  together,  living  there 
as  any  tourists  up  to  London  for  a  holiday.  And 
they  were  on  the  eve  of  more  extended  travels — 
Heaven  knew  where. 

"My  dear  Hobby — you  are  too  critical.  If  our 
dramatists  were  absolutely  true  to  life,  there 
wouldn't  be  a  play  on  the  stage — 'the  censor  would 
see  to  it.  Always  remember  that  what  interests  is 
not  the  normal,  but  the  abnormal.  Possibly,  round 
about  us  at  these  very  tables,  there  are  plenty  of 
Joneses,  but  few  Browns.  Brown  is  necessary  to 
the  tragedian — in  our  humdrum  existence  his  place 
is  often  taken  by  the  judge,  though  that  is  a  fact 
we  must  not  dilate  upon." 

"Then  you  do  believe  that  men  who  work  are 
likely  to  have  a  bad  time  as  husbands?" 

"I  don't  believe  it  at  all.  It  is  true  that  com- 
merce does  not  inspire  high  ideals — but  you  must 
remember  that  your  commercial  man  rarely  suc- 
ceeds before  he  is  forty — by  which  time  he  has  a 
family  of  sons  and  daughters  and  his  wife  is  a 
dowager.  The  idle  few  may  be  responsible  for  the 


264 


THE,   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

tragedies — indeed,  we  know  that  they  are — but  the 
idea  that  all  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark  be- 
cause a  few  men  are  rogues  and  a  few  women  un- 
faithful, is  just  as  pernicious  a  doctrine  as  any  you 
could  name  to  me." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  What  I  quarrel  with  is  the 
eternal  sameness  of  the  story.  They  say  there  are 
no  new  plots — two  men  and  one  woman  or  two 
women  and  one  man — I  wonder  what  the  Greek 
tragedians  would  have  had  to  say  to  that?" 

"Ah,  there  we  must  be  fair.  When  Medea  rends 
her  children  or  Alcestis  goes  to  the  Shades,  there 
are  possibilities  unknown  to  the  moderns,  with  their 
eternal  scenes  in  Park  Lane,  or  second  acts  in  the 
casino  at  Monte  Carlo.  Modernity  is  everywhere 
the  foe  to  romance.  The  new  socialism  will  wipe 
out  all  the  romantic  figures — we  shall  have  no 
braver  uniform  than  a  banded  cap  with  a  badge  on 
it — no  more  splendid  hero  than  the  fireman  on  the 
top  of  a  ladder.  We  are  nearer  to  it  every  day. 
Regard  nosostros  as  the  Spaniards  say — what 
would  they  have  thought  of  this  dinner  suit  in  the 
days  of  Charles  the  King?  My  dear  Hobby,  they 
would  have  locked  us  up  in  Bedlam  immediately  for 
wearing  boards  upon  our  chests,  and  considered  us 
little  less  than  lunatics  for  imprisoning  our  throats 
in  impossible  bands  of  linen." 


265 


"That's  true — and  yet  we  do  it  because  no  man 
has  the  pluck  to  set  the  fashion.  Now,  in  the 
East " 

"Ah,  the  East — that  brings  light  to  the  eyes.  I'll 
."Hke  you  to  the  East  if  you  like,  Hobby — the  East 
of  Europe  to  begin  with — Turkey,  Hungary, 
Greece — then  to  India,  to  Burmah,  to  China,  to  Ja- 
pan. My  dear  fellow,  we  shall  begin  to  live  in  the 
East.  This  is  but  existence  and  not  very  tolerable 
at  that." 

Hobby  looked  at  him  a  little  sadly.  How  heavy 
was  the  debt  his  fellow  men  had  called  upon  this 
clever  man  to  pay !  Even  these  few  days  in  London 
had  been  a  torture  to  John  Canning.  He  was  sure 
of  it 

"Are  you  really  willing  to  go?"  he  asked,  a  little 
nervously.  "Does  London  bore  you  already?" 

"Of  course  it  does.  Any  city  which  brings  evil 
memories  is  anathema  to  a  sensible  man.  This  Lon- 
don is  full  of  them.  Ghosts  meet  me  at  every  cor- 
ner. I  wake  up  in  the  morning  to  live  ancient  days 
and  to  lan'ient  them.  Phantoms  everywhere,  Hobby 
—castles  of  the  dreams,  whose  gates  are  shut  to  me ; 
friends  who  pass  by  on  the  other  side — how  shall  I 
like  London  and  why  should  I  live  here?" 

"Oh,  but  you  have  met  a  good  many  men  these 
last  few  days." 


266 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Canning  laughed  so  loudly  that  a  waiter  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

"I'll  tell  you — I  met  Horace  Gipps,  the  banker, 
to-day  and  he  asked  me  to  lunch — at  a  hotel.  Do 
you  see,  my  boy,  you  can't  take  convicts  among 
your  women  folk — it  wouldn't  do — and  yet  you 
must  get  money  out  of  them  if  they  have  got  any. 
Gipps  banks  my  money  and  offers  me — the  seclu- 
sion of  a  private  room  in  a  private  hotel.  Then 
there's  young  Val  Percival,  who  was  my  closest 
friend  at  King's.  I  saw  him  in  the  Park  yesterday 
and  he  clambered  into  his  phaeton  to  avoid  me.  He 
doesn't  want  my  money  and  so  we  don't  speak.  A 
third  is  that  notorious  rogue,  Bernard  Philpotts — 
his  real  name  is  Abraham.  He  asked  me  to  his 
house — but  I  discovered  that  his  wife  and  children 
are  at  Brighton.  Finally,  I  met  the  woman  who 
was  to  be  my  wife — she  was  coming  out  of  the 
Haymarket  last  night.  She  stared  me  full  in  the 
face  and  did  not  even  change  color.  In  my  case 
even  money  is  not  the  key.  I  could  rent  a  house  in 
Park  Lane  to-morrow  and  fill  it  with  rascals  of  all 
kinds,  unspeakable  men,  women  who  would  sell 
their  souls — but  what's  the  gain  in  that?  How  does 
Self,  sitting  in  a  high  place,  like  the  worship  of  the 
great  kingdom  of  vice  and  roguery,  the  applause  of 
mendicants,  the  love  of  mercenary  women?  Is  that 


267 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

amnesty?  Does  such  a  victory  satisfy?  I  tell  you  I 
would  sooner  starve  with  the  meanest  upon  the 
Thames  Embankment  than  suffer  an  hour  of  it. 
That's  why  I'm  going  to  the  East,  Hobby — and 
there's  the  reason  why  you  should  accompany  me." 

Hobby  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"I  have  my  work  to  do,  Canning.  Little  homes 
like  mine  don't  send  men  round  the  world  to  enjoy 
themselves.  I  have  the  wife  and  kiddies  to  con- 
sider and  am  thankful  if  I  can  keep  everything  go- 
ing. When  people  speak  to  me  about  holidays — 
motor  cars,  yachts,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — they 
are  doing  me  no  service.  Workers  in  olden  times 
were  better  off,  just  because  they  didn't  know  what 
they  missed.  I'm  sure  the  daily  papers  must  be  tor- 
ture to  thousands  of  good  fellows  who  never  get  a 
real  holiday,  and  wouldn't  ask  for  one  if  it  wasn't 
for  what  the  papers  say." 

"That's  true.  Our  greatest  heroes  are  not  states- 
men or  soldiers  or  even  successful  barristers — they 
are  the  humble  folk  working  in  the  gloom  of  the 
city  and  resting  in  the  gloom  of  the  suburbs.  These 
go  unhonored  and  unsung.  They  live  daily  trage- 
dies. The  tax  gatherer's  knock  is  often  an  omen  of 
doom  to  them.  They  have  no  societies  to  help  them 
— they  live  and  die  unaided.  Yes,  these  men  are  the 
heroes — and  here  in  England  we  have  a  few  mil- 
lions of  them,  thank  God." 

268 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"I  say  the  same — but  you  don't  put  me  into  that 
category,  surely.  My  work  is  a  real  pleasure  to 
me.  I  dream  dreams  which  are  reward  enough, 
even  if  they  remain  dreams.  Some  day  I  believe 
that  I  shall  do  something,  please  God — though  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  when  the  day  was  coming." 

"It  will  come  soon  if  you  are  determined  that  it 
shall  come.  But  you  must  add  patience  to  deter- 
mination— and  must  make  sacrifices.  I  shall  take 
you  to  France  whatever  you  say,  and  you  will  spend 
excellent  weeks  lying,  metaphorically,  on  your  back 
and  studying  the  architectural  wisdom  of  the  an- 
cients. In  Rouen  alone,  I  will  make  your  fortune, 
Hobby — you  would  be  a  madman  to  neglect  the 
opportunity.'"' 

Hobby  did  not  make  an  immediate  response. 
Truth  to  tell,  he  suffered  no  little  anxiety  on  his 
friend's  behalf,  and  grieved  much  over  the  circum- 
stances which  had  driven  them  from  Bell  Island. 
The  world  must  be  full  of  evil  temptations  to  such 
a  man  at  such  a  time,  he  thought.  Far  better  to  re- 
main quietly  in  the  shelter  of  his  new  home,  win- 
ning the  people's  confidence  and  regaining  his  old 
self-respect.  These  Eastern  cities  with  their  idle 
and  voluptuous  life — for  here  you  had  the  subur- 
ban view — the  glamour  of  new  lands,  the  excitement 
of  travel  would  minister  but  ill  to  a  mind  harassed 
by  one  desire  and  sustained  but  by  one  hope.  This 

269 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

the  little  man  was  shrewd  enough  to  perceive;  but 
he  did  not  express  it,  for  another  had  come  upon  the 
scene,  and,  with  an  instant  prescience  of  danger, 
Ernest  Hobby  sat  back  in  his  chair  to  listen. 

What  a  beautiful  creature  she  was !  he  said — for 
thus  was  the  manner  of  his  expression.  Though 
London  is  but  a  social  wilderness  in  October,  there 
were  many  well-known  folk  in  the  Carlton  lounge, 
many  well-dressed  women  who  were  "passing 
through" ;  a  goodly  sprinkling  of  men  just  returned 
from  the  moors  or  the  cures — and  not  a  few  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  called  back  to  the  dull  labors  of 
an  autumn  session.  Among  these  my  Lady  of  the 
States  moved  with  charming  grace  and  becoming 
majesty.  Faultlessly  dressed  in  a  gown  of  the  rich- 
est lace,  wearing  diamonds  as  her  only  ornament, 
the  Countess  de  Failes  had  long  forgotten  that 
France  was  not  the  land  of  her  birth,  and  that  Phil- 
adelphia had  established  the  fortunes  of  those  an- 
cestors whose  very  names  she  had  almost  forgotten. 
For  she  had  married  a  French  nobleman,  whose 
chateaux  were  not  in  Spain,  but  upon  the  banks  of 
the  Loire ;  and  one  of  whose  forebears  had  followed 
the  Marquis  de  Lafayette  to  that  very  America 
which  re-established  the  splendor  of  his  decaying 
household. 

Now,  John  Canning  knew  this  lady  well ;  he  had 
been  concerned  formerly  with  her  husband  in  float- 

270 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

ing  a  motor-car  company  in  Paris  and  had  stayed 
at  the  Chateau  de  Nivres  for  weeks  together ;  drawn 
there  less  by  the  hope  of  adding  to  his  fortunes  than 
of  enjoying  the  society  of  this  charming  woman. 
When  he  met  her  again  thus  unexpectedly  at  the 
Carlton  Hotel,  his  satisfaction  was  abounding — hers 
not  less  reticent.  Be  sure  that  such  a  woman  knew 
nothing  of  the  tragedy  or  its  meaning.  She  had 
always  liked  the  Englishman  whose  ways  were  so 
very  American,  for  such  was  a  charming  fem- 
inine inconsistency — and  his  rediscovery  pleased 
her  beyond  any  event  of  a  wearying  season  of 
pleasure. 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  John  Canning,  I  do  believe — now 
where  have  you  been  hiding  all  these  years  and 
years,  and  whatever  do  you  mean  by  deserting  your 
old  friends  in  this  way?" 

The  men  stood  at  her  approach,  and  she  drew  a 
chair  to  their  table  with  the  greatest  nonchalance. 
The  general  babble  and  confusion  permitted  Can- 
ning to  hide  the  distress  to  which  her  question  had 
put  him,  and  to  make  a  commonplace  answer. 

"Don't  tell  me  that  you  are  curious,"  he  said 
quietly;  "that  is  not  a  social  vice  in  our  time.  The 
world  goes  too  fast  to  leave  us  time  for  curiosity. 
Say  that  I  was  dead  and  have  come  to  life  again — 
and  permit  me  to  introduce  my  friend,  Mr.  Ernest 
Hobby." 

271 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  bent  her  head — a  salute  returned  by  Hobby 
in  a  suburban  bow,  which  began  at  his  boots  and 
finished  at  the  back  of  his  head.  When  coffee  had 
been  served  and  she  had  lighted  a  cigarette,  she 
persevered  in  her  endeavor  to  learn  what  her  friend 
had  been  doing  during  the  years. 

"My  husband  is  in  America,"  she  said  quietly; 
"I  am  quite  alone,  and  for  two  weeks  I  have  been 
insufferably  bored  in  this  hotel.  You  shall  amusa 
me  by  telling  me  about  your  travels — I  want  to- 
hear  about  the  women,  not  the  tigers — every  one 
tells  me  about  the  tigers  and  that  makes  me  tired. 
Now,  Mr.  Canning,  you  won't  tell  me  about  the 
tigers " 

"Are  they  generally  associated  with  women, 
Countess — your  own  suggestion?" 

"Why!  was  it?  But  you  see  I've  lived  fifteen 
years  in  Europe — what  else  could  I  say?" 

"Oh,  many  things — you  could  tell  me  about  the 
Chateau  de  Nivres  to  begin  with.  I  carry  a  memory 
of  it  in  my  dreams.  A  winding  shallow  river,  a 
bridge  of  arches,  turrets,  towers,  a  little  chapel,  a 
great  ballroom  from  whose  windows  you  can  fish,  a 
range  of  green  hills  across  the  valley — the  forest, 
a  forest  of  dreamland  everywhere.  Now,  is  not 
that  the  Chateau  de  Nivres  and  do  I  overpraise 
it?" 

She  admitted  that  he  did  not. 
272 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"You  must  write  an  account  of  it  when  my  hus- 
band wishes  to  sell  it,"  she  said — and  this  turned 
astonished  eyes  upon  her. 

"Sell  it — what  an  infamy!  He  doesn't  contem- 
plate anything  of  the  kind,  surely?" 

"He  may  do  so — -when  we  quarrel.  A  man  often 
wishes  to  sell  the  house  of  his  disagreements." 

"You  are  speaking  of  the  future,  Countess?" 

"Naturally — is  one  really  to  be  blessed  with  a 
memory  in  these  days?  My  husband  is  wise — he 
has  gone  to  America  to  learn  the  first  of  all  lessons. 
Do  you  know  what  that  is,  Mr.  Canning?" 

"Certainly — there  is  one  god  and  gold  is  his 
profit." 

She  laughed,  tapping  his  arm  with  her  fan  and 
sipping  her  coffee  before  she  spoke  again. 

"Woman  is  the  lesson  in  America.  Men  learn  it 
thoroughly — you  will  learn  it  when  you  marry." 

"Then  you  know  that  I  am  not  married." 

"I  divined  it  instantly.  You  cannot  keep  such  a 
secret  from  a  woman.  You  are  not  married,  and 
you  are  coming  to  the  Chateau  de  Nivres  imme- 
diately. Oh,  my  dear  man,  you  won't  leave  me  to 
die  of  ennui?" 

"I   am   very   sorry,    Countess — my   friend   here 

» 

"But  he  will  come,  too.  It  will  give  me  the  great- 
est pleasure.  Let  us  see,  to-day  is  Wednesday — I 

273 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

shall  expect  you  both  at  the  Chateau  on  Saturday 
night." 

"But " 

She  laughed,  rising  upon  the  word. 

"There  is  no  'but'  in  a  woman's  dictionary,  cher 
Monsieur.  I  shall  expect  you  on  Saturday  night 
and  you  will  not  disappoint  me.  Now — good  night. 
I  have  been  to  all  the  tragedies  and  I  am  tired  out. 
At  Nivres  we  will  learn  to  live  again." 

She  left  them  with  a  smile,  passing  as  a  born 
grande  dame  through  the  admiring  throngs  to  the 
great  staircase  and  her  bedroom.  The  men,  for 
their  part,  staring  foolishly  at  each  other,  sat  down 
maladroitly  and  feared,  each  in  his  turn,  to  speak  of 
it.  It  may  even  be  that  rapid  and  searching  ques- 
tions were  asked  by  both — Canning  deceiving  him- 
self with  ready  replies  to  the  interrogatories  of  ex- 
cuse; Hobby  perplexed  by  those  of  wisdom.  For 
be  sure  that  this  kindly  creature  guessed  already 
something  of  the  truth.  "There  is  a  woman,"  he 
was  saying,  "who  may  be  the  enemy  of  this  man's 
peace — I  will  go  with  him  to  Nivres." 

"You  see,"  exclaimed  Canning  at  last,  as  one 
speaking  his  thoughts  aloud,  "we  could  go  to  Paris 
to-morrow  and  I  could  trot  you  round  the  city  on 
Friday.  Saturday  would  take  us  to  Nivres.  I  don't 
know  any  place  where  a  man  of  your  profession 
would  learn  as  much." 

274 


THH   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Hobby  laughed  out  loud. 

"Look  here,  Canning — 'you're  not  thinking  about 
architecture — you're  thinking  about  that  woman." 

"If  so,  my  thoughts  will  do  her  no  discredit." 

"I  hope  not — well,  I'll  come  with  you  if  you  like. 
I've  never  seen  much  of  France  and  you  certainly 
want  a  chaperon.  Oh,  yes,  I'll  go,  all  right." 

"My  dear  Hobby,  you  would  make  an  excellent 
mother-in-law." 

"The  very  thing  you  told  me  on  the  island — when 
I  spoke  to  you  about  little  Jesse.  I  wonder  what  she 
is  doing  to-night,  Canning." 

Canning  stood  up  immediately. 

"Oh,  I'm  in  no  mood  for  philosophic  specula- 
tions. She  would  be  sleeping,  I  suppose." 

"Or  dreaming,  old  chap — eh  ?  These  young  girls 
know  how  to  dream.  It's  only  when  you  have 
chateaux  in  France  that  you  begin  to  sleep  soundly, 
eh?  Well,  we'll  go  to  Nivres — and  come  back 


soon." 


They  shook  hands  upon  it  and  went  to  their  re- 
spective rooms;  but  it  was  long  before  either  slept. 
The  few  clever  words  dropped  by  Hobby  were  not 
lost  upon  his  friend,  nor  did  he  fail  to  recall  them 
often  during  that  long  night  of  wakefulness.  How 
disastrous  hacl  been  his  attempts  to  anchor  himself 
securely  to  the  rock  of  a  good  woman's  love !  How 
cruelly  the  world  had  dealt  by  him,  that  his  stigma 

275 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

of  failure  should  brand  him  to  the  end!  And  it 
must  always  be  so,  he  thought,  in  such  a  case  as  his. 
Society  neither  forgets  nor  forgives.  The  solemn 
words  spoken  by  a  judge  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
criminal  before  him,  the  dark  years  of  the  prison 
life  are  but  the  beginning  of  the  reaping.  The  true 
punishment  comes  afterward,  and  has  no  end  but 
in  death. 

He  warred  against  the  world  in  those  hours — 
warred  against  all  social  codes  and  the  common 
faiths.  What  forbade  him  quitting  such  an  exist- 
ence and  turning  to  that  sun  of  pleasure  which 
would  shine  upon  him  in  a  new  country,  among  a 
people  who  knew  him  not,  or  knowing,  would  not 
care?  Who  could  judge  him  for  that  or  hold  him 
guilty?  He  had  the  best  years  of  his  life  yet  to 
live — if  his  own  country  had  no  use  for  them,  if 
the  very  villages  must  ring  with  the  story  of  his  in- 
famies, what  heritage  of  duty  forbade  him  to  go 
forth  to  the  wilderness?  A  sense  of  culminating 
injustice  answered  "none."  The  night  tempted  him 
with  the  dream  pictures  of  a  glowing  sensualism; 
of  cities  and  fair  women  and  golden  palaces;  of 
mountains  girding  a  promised  land;  of  kings  and 
peoples  who  would  honor  him;  of  riches  which 
could  purchase  all  human  joys.  And  he  submitted 
to  them,  battling  with  sleep  for  their  enjoyment  and 
surrendering  none  of  them  until  the  dawn,  When 

276 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

at  last  he  slept,  these  visions  passed  to  give  place  to 
others — but  not  of  the  East  nor  of  the  voluptuary's 
dominion.  For  now  he  dreamed  of  Jesse  Fearney 
— and  her  name  was  upon  his  lips  when  they  waked 
him  to  the  day  which  should  carry  him  from  Eng- 
land upon  an  uncertain  pilgrimage. 


277 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

JESSE  HEARS  THE  TRUTH 

THE  cruiser  Marathon  returned  to  its  anchorage 
at  Bell  Island  three  days  after  Japhon  Fearney's 
flight;  but  not  until  the  afternoon  of  the  following 
day  could  Philip  Blake  get  leave  to  go  ashore,  and 
hear  the  strange  news  which  a  dozen  willing  gos- 
sips about  the  harbor  gates  were  only  too  ready  to 
tell  him. 

"Be  you  going  up  to  the  farm,  sir?  Well,  there  be 
rare  goings  on.  'Tis  said  the  police  are  in  the 
house  and  the  old  man  in  Holland.  We  don't 
rightly  know  ourselves,  but  'tis  extraordiner  strange 
to  be  sure.  Mr.  Moss,  he  came  across  late  las'  night. 
We  don't  'xactly  know  what  such  as  'ee  be  a-doing 
up  there,  but  'tis  after  old  Japhon  for  sure.  Ay,  a 
mighty  secret  man  he  were  and  keepin'  it  cleverly, 
too,  from  his  friends  and  naybers.  But  'tis  all  give 
over  now,  sir,  and  the  darter  in  a  sad  plight,  as 
you'll  learn  for  yourself  if  you  be  going  up." 

The  speaker  was  old  Tom  Weede,  standing  back 
to  the  wall  and  smoking  his  pipe  as  unconcernedly 
as  though  the  arrest  of  half  the  population  would 

278 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

not  trouble  him  at  all.  Others  betrayed  no  more 
feeling,  and  were  chiefly  anxious  to  hear  what  the 
lieutenant  would  say.  Had  he  not  been  "courting" 
up  at  the  farm  ever  since  the  Marathon  came  round 
to  the  Bristol  Channel — why,  surely  he  should 
know?  When  he  professed  a  healthy  ignorance, 
their  astonishment  was  undisguised. 

"What  do  you  all  mean?"  he  asked  them.  "The 
police,  you  say?  What  have  the  police  to  do  with 
Japhon  Fearney?" 

"Ay,  maister,  that's  what  a  good  many  on  us 
would  like  to  know.  Ye  see,  he  were  a  secret  man 
and  uncanny — and  that's  the  sort  the  police  do  well 
to  look  after  when  the  trouble  begins " 

"Has  he  escaped  them  ?    Has  he  gone  ?" 

"Sailed  for  Holland  three  days  ago  and  no  more 
heard  of.  The  lifeboat  went  out  but  could  not  find 
'ee.  Belike  the  old  man  is  where  the  King's  writ 
can't  touch  him.  'Twere  a  dreadful  night  and  not 
for  such  a  bit  of  a  boat  as  he  put  out  in.  Ay, 
Japhon  were  not  the  man  to  be  took  by  the  law,  sir 
— he  knowed  summat,  he  did — and  if  alive  he  is,  it 
won't  be  Moss  of  Bide  ford  as  will  clap  hands  upon 
'him,  take  it  from  us,  sir." 

Philip  Blake  could  make  nothing  of  it.  What  in 
Heaven's  name  were  they  chattering  about?  He 
would  have  staked  his  life  on  Japhon  Fearney 's 
honesty — but  this  story  of  a  secret  voyage  was 

279 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

another  thing  altogether.  He  remembered  what  a 
night  of  wind  and  sea  it  had  been.  If  the  old  man 
were  drowned  and  the  mainland  had  the  story,  of 
course,  the  police  would  bring  it  over.  And  this, 
he  said,  was  the  origin  of  all  this  callous  talk,  these 
attitudes  of  wonder,  these  "I  would's  and  I  could's." 
A  pitiful  people,  a  sordid,  callous  company  from 
which  any  man  might  pray  to  be  delivered. 

"Do  you  say  that  Miss  Jesse  is  alone  in  the 
house?"  he  asked  them.  Abe  Benson  answered 
him. 

"She  be  in  the  house,  all  right,  leastwise  if  she've 
lost  her  fancy  for  roving  when  decent  folk  be  in 
their  beds.  Arst  my  son  Frank — he'll  tell  you  she 
slept  up  in  Whiterock  coppice  the  night  the  old  man 
sailed  away.  Her  fancy  man  be  off  to  England — • 
'twere  like  a  woman  to  be  out  all  night  in  a  nor'- 
wester  to  call  him  back  again.  But  you'll  be  going 
up  presently  yourself,  sir,"  he  added  sagely — "and 
no  doubt  correcting  some  of  us  if  we  be  wrong." 

This  was  a  far  from  subtle  attempt  to  get  the 
news  first  hand;  for,  in  truth,  these  people  knew 
little  but  what  their  eyes  told  them,  and  even  Frank 
Benson,  who  had  extorted  the  truth  about  the  quar- 
rel from  Hannah,  the  maid,  had  not,  despite  his 
cunning,  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  into  the 
farmhouse.  All  that  Bell  Island  could  tell  you 
truly  was  that  Japhon  Fearney  sailed  away  from 

280 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

the  northern  creek  sixty  hours  ago,  that  the  lifeboat 
had  searched  for,  but  had  not  found  him,  and  that 
the  police  in  company  with  the  Customs  officer 
was  now  at  the  farm,  on  a  mission  which  could  be 
surmised,  but  not  stated.  The  rest  was  the  crude 
fretwork  of  ill-governed  tongues.  It  failed  to  con- 
vince any  of  them — it  certainly  failed  to  convince 
Philip  Blake. 

He  walked  on  quickly  to  the  farm,  not  a  little 
curious,  not  a  little  sad.  Disaster  is  often  a  ready 
excavator  of  buried  thoughts,  dragging  them  from 
the  graves  which  self-justification  has  digged,  and 
setting  them  fearfully  under  God's  blue  sky.  Such 
a  skeleton  now  stood  before  Philip  Blake  and  asked 
him  troublesome  questions.  Why  had  he  visited 
Kearney's  farm  so  often  ?  What  was  the  meaning  of 
his  visits?  Why  did  he  intrude  there  when  he  knew 
full  well  that  Jesse  Fearney  loved  another  man? 
Had  his  intentions  toward  her  been  honorable  or 
dishonorable?  She  must  have  suffered  much  if  this 
tale  were  true — endured  those  secret  sorrows  which 
are  a  woman's  heaviest  burden.  Had  he,  Philip 
Blake,  added  to  those  burdens,  been  the  foe  to  her 
happiness,  nay  worse,  the  chief  among  her  ene- 
mies? These  matters  he  did  not  dare  to  sift  to  the 
bottom.  A  man  knows  when  all  is  not  well,  and 
must  be  deaf  indeed  if  the  voice  of  shame  has  noth- 
ing to  say  to  him. 

281 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

He  accused  himself  and  yet  could  be  thankful  for 
the  accusation.  No  harm  had  been  done.  This 
lonely,  friendless  girl,  whose  bright  eyes  had  so 
often  made  his  heart  dance,  she  should  find  a  friend 
in  him,  even  if  he  came  but  at  the  eleventh  hour. 
Her  father's  disgrace,  if  disgrace  it  were,  must 
make  no  difference.  He  would  stand  in  Japhon 
Fearney's  place  until  the  old  fellow  returned — he 
would  delight  in  such  service  as  a  man  can  give 
honestly  and  disinterestedly.  So,  at  least,  said  Sir 
Valiant  as  he  hurried  up  the  cliff  path  to  the  farm- 
house door.  The  bright  eyes  must  tempt  him  no 
more— alas,  that  bright  eyes  refuse  so  often  to  do 
a  brave  man's  bidding! 

In  such  a  mood  as  this  came  Philip  to  the  farm 
and  knocked  softly  at  the  door.  The  appearance  of 
a  burly  sergeant  of  police  in  no  way  surprised  him 
after  what  he  had  heard  in  the  village.  It  was- 
clear  now  that  the  worst  had  happened,  and  he  was 
glad  to  think  that  he  might  yet  be  in  time  to  help 
Jesse. 

"Is  she  at  home  ?"  he  asked — for  it  was  very  nat- 
ural to  mention  no  names.  The  sergeant,  who 
knew  the  officers  of  the  Marathon  very  well  and 
had  an  official  respect  for  them,  replied  without  any 
subterfuge — 

"The  lady's  in  the  orchard,  I  think,  sir.  This  is 
a  bad  business,  Mr.  Blake,  and  I  fear  it  will  be 

282 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

worse.  They  say  the  old  man  never  reached  Hol- 
land alive — but  you'd  like  to  walk  in,  sir ;  you  might 
wish  to  see  Miss  Fearney." 

Philip  said  that  he  did.  A  few  questions  to  the 
sergeant  obtained  plain,  if  unpleasant,  answers.  It 
was  quite  true  that  a  warrant  had  been  issued  for 
old  Japhon's  arrest.  He  and  Holly  Angus  had  been 
running  a  doubtful  business  for  some  years,  and  this 
saccharin  smuggling  was  the  meanest  part  of  it. 
The  lawyers  would  prove  embezzlement  and  fraud 
to  a  large  degree — Angus  was  booked  for  ten  years' 
penal  servitude,  and  if  old  Fearney  were  caught  he 
would  certainly  get  five. 

"But  he'll  never  be  caught,  sir,"  the  sergeant 
added  sagely;  "he's  where  no  warrant  will  touch 
him,  and  glad  I  am  for  that.  When  a  man  has  such 
a  daughter  we  may  be  glad  to  see  disgrace  passing 
him  by  and  visiting  others.  I  daresn't  tell  the 
young  lady  so — but  we  don't  believe  her  father's 
alive,  and  that's  the  truth  of  it." 

Philip  said  that  he  supposed  it  must  be  so. 

"But  we  must  do  our  best  for  the  rest  of  them," 
he  rejoined,  "and  we  needn't  say  more  than  is  nec- 
essary, sergeant.  I'm  sure  you  won't  do  that." 

The  sergeant  said:  "Oh,  no  indeed,  sir."  He 
had  children  of  his  own  and  could  afford  to  be  a 
man,  as  well  as  an  officer  of  police.  The  search 
then  being  made  among  Fearney's  papers  was  nec- 

283 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

essary,  but  would  be  done  with  as  much  delicacy  as 
possible — and  afterward  one  of  them  must  remain 
at  the  farm — such  were  their  instructions,  which  he 
hoped  would  embarrass  Miss  Fearney  as  little  as 
possible.  "But  perhaps  you  will  see  her  for  your- 
self and  tell  her  so,"  he  concluded.  "It's  difficult 
for  the  likes  of  us  to  do  that  kind  of  work,  as  you 
will  very  well  understand,  sir." 

Philip  agreed  and  went  straight  through  the 
farmhouse  to  the  yard  beyond,  and  thence  to  the 
orchard.  He  found  Jesse  sitting  upon  an  old  bench 
near  the  swing  which  had  played  so  large  a  part  in 
the  story  of  her  childhood;  and  he  perceived  at 
once  how  great  a  surprise  this  visitation  had  been, 
for  she  still  wore  the  apron  which  served  for  her 
household  duties  and  he  could  detect  no  emblem  of 
a  woman's  vanity  in  her  appearance. 

And  then  her  welcome.  The  fervor  of  it,  the 
sudden  understanding  that  a  friend  had  come  to  the 
house,  that  here  was  a  man  who  would  help  a 
woman  in  the  hour  of  her  need.  Philip  Blake 
found  this  the  most  difficult  part  of  it — Sir  Valiant 
trembled  before  the  touch  of  those  hot  hands,  be- 
fore the  tear-stained  eyes  which  the  light  of  hope 
had  kindled  to  sudden  brightness,  before  the  mu- 
sical words  of  thanks  and  recognition. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blake,  Mr.  Blake! — oh,  it  is  indeed  you! 
And  I  have  been  alone  so  many,  many  hours." 

284 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Philip  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  looked  into 
the  laughing  eyes,  laughing  despite  their  sadness. 

"I  knew  nothing,  Miss  Jesse — how  could  I  ?  We 
only  came  in  last  night — this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
been  ashore.  But  of  course  I  came  up  here  at  once 
— you  know  that  I  did." 

She  ignored  it,  beginning  to  tell  him  quickly  of 
her  troubles  and  of  the  woe  which  had  come  upon 
their  house. 

"My  father  sailed  away  three  nights  ago — we 
had  quarreled — about — about  Mr.  Canning.  I  did 
not  see  him— oh,  Mr.  Blake!  he  went  without  a 
word  to  me  and  I  have  received  neither  letter  nor 
message  since.  And  now  the  police  have  come  here. 
They  say  they  are  looking  for  some  papers  which 
belong  to  Mr.  Holly  Angus — but  I  don't  under- 
stand that.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  ? — 
and  my  father  gone  from  me  like  this — oh,  Mr. 
Blake ! — gone  and  I  alone — what  shall  I  do  ?" 

He  drew  her  toward  the  seat  and  began  to  talk 
to  her  quietly. 

"Is  Canning  back  at  the  Castle  yet?"  he  asked 
her.  She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is  living  in  London?" 

"He  did  not  tell  me — why  should  he  have 
done?" 

"Then  there  is  no  chance  that  your  father  sailed 
over  to  the  mainland  and  went  on  to  London?" 

285 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Her  eyes  lighted  at  this — here  was  something  she 
had  never  thought  upon. 

"It  might  be — and  yet — but  no,  he  would  not  let 
me  see  him,  he  forbade  me  to  go  to  the  house — 
after  it  was  known.  It  could  not  be  that,  Mr. 
Blake." 

"Then  he  may  have  gone  there  on  other  business 
— perhaps  to  see  the  lawyers.  What  I  cannot  un- 
derstand is  his  silence.  He  would  have  written  to 
you,  I  should  think,  that  is  if  he  crossed  in  safety. 
It  was  a  dreadful  night — the  whole  village  is  talk- 
ing about  it." 

He  avoided  her  glance  now,  and  for  a  little  while 
neither  spoke.  Jesse  had  thought  of  this  terrible 
possibility,  but  had  not  dared  to  speak  her  thoughts 
to  any  one. 

"Do  you  believe  my  father  is  dead,  Mr.  Blake?" 

"God  forbid — I'll  believe  no  such  thing.  He  was 
a  fine  sailor — he  would  have  run  for  shelter  when 
he  saw  how  the  wind  was  rising.  I  should  say  he 
might  have  had  to  lie  up  somewhere  for  a  day  or 
two — but  you  will  hear  soon,  perhaps  to-morrow. 
In  any  case,  it  won't  be  long  before  Canning  re- 
turns— that  I'm  sure  of." 

She  flushed  at  this,  wondering  why  he  would 
speak  of  it — for  she  knew  that  he  loved  her  and 
that  talk  of  John  Canning  must  be  hateful  to 
him. 

286 


THE   FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 

"I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  come  to  Bell  Island 
again,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"But  you  wish  him  to  come — tell  me  that,  Jesse 
— you  wish  him  to  come?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Flushed  cheeks,  the 
averted  face,  the  quick  beating  of  her  heart  were 
answer  enough.  Had  Philip  Blake  confessed  the 
truth,  he  would  have  said  that  this  was  the  greatest 
hour  of  temptation  he  had  lived  through.  Oh,  how 
easy  it  would  have  been  to  have  played  the  role  of 
some  worshiping  Knight  Errant,  who  would  have 
taken  all  her  burdens  upon  his  stout  shoulders, 
whispered  stories  of  new  lands  and  a  new  home, . 
bidden  her  rise  up  and  follow  him  to  an  Eldorado 
where  all  but  his  love  and  worship  should  be  for- 
gotten! This  many  another  would  have  done.  He 
believed  that  he  had  but  to  put  the  picture  before 
her  in  sufficiently  glowing  colors  to  win  a  victory 
beyond  all  his  hopes.  For  what  would  such  a  child 
think  of  form  and  ceremony  in  such  an  hour  ?  What 
would  be  her  scruples  in  the  face  of  this  tragedy  of 
death  and  shame?  "Tell  her  the  truth  and  she  will 
go  with  you,"  a  voice  whispered  in  his  ear.  It 
needed  all  Sir  Valiant's  courage  to  cope  with 
that. 

Long  he  sat  silently  wrestling  with  this  supreme 
temptation.  How  beautiful  she  was !  What  a  picture 
of  English  girlhood  in  its  maturity !  How  winning 

287 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

were  all  her  gestures,  even  those  of  her  sorrow! 
And  he  had  but  to  speak  the  word,  the  canting 
word,  alike  hypocritical  and  veracious.  Let  him  but 
say  to  her,  "Your  father  is  a  felon,  the  law  is  seek- 
ing him,  he  fled  from  you  to  escape  shame  and  a 
prison" — and  who  would  doubt  her  answer?  If  he 
forbore,  the  lessons  of  a  life  of  discipline  and  of 
duty  helped  him  to  the  victory.  And  their  help  was 
noble.  Long  years  afterward  Philip  Blake  remem- 
bered that  hour  and  thanked  God  for  it. 

"Jesse,"  he  said  at  last,  "do  you  remember  my 
telling  you  that  the  old  guv'nor  knew  the  true  story 
of  John  Canning  and  his  trial?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  new  light  altogether  in 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  I  remember  it  perfectly." 
"Well,  I  managed  to  get  home  for  half  a  day 
last  week  and  I  had  it  out  with  the  guv'nor.  There 
is  a  clerk  in  our  office  at  home  who  knows  a  good 
many  things  Canning  would  like  to  hear,  if  some 
one  would  only  tell  him  as  much.  Now,  why  don't 
you  do  that?" 

"Oh,  but,  Mr.  Blake— is  it  about  his  trial?" 
"It  is  about  the  particular  charges  they  brought 
against  him  when  his  company  went  down.  My 
father  thiiiks  he  would  have  got  off,  if  he  had 
known  then  as  much  as  old  Fred  Willing,  our  clerk, 
knows  now.  Of  course  it  may  not  all  be  true,  but 

288 


FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

I  think  we  ought  to  let  Mr.  Canning  know,  and 
you're  the  one  to  do  it." 

Her  face  clouded — did  he  forget  what  had  hap- 
pened, then? 

"But  how  can  I  write  to  him,  Mr.  Blake — he  has 
gone  away,  you  know — how  could  I  send  a  letter?" 

"There  should  be  half  a  dozen  ways.  I'm  going 
up  to  town  next  week  when  our  work  is  done  here, 
and  I'll  find  out  all  about  it  for  you.  I  suppose 
they'll  keep  us  hanging  around  another  day  or  two, 
for  the  Admiral  is  keen  about  a  lot  of  things  and 
we  don't  join  the  fleet  for  another  fortnight.  I 
ought  to  get  a  few  days'  leave  when  we  do  go,  and 
I'll  use  them  to  discover  all  about  Canning  and  to 
let  you  know.  You  must  tell  him  everything — you 
must  ask  him  to  come  back  here  and  help  you, 
Jesse " 

"Help  me — oh,  I  would  never  ask  him  to  do 
that." 

"He'll  do  it  without  any  asking.  I  wish  I  had 
his  opportunities." 

He  sighed  a  little  wistfully.  Honest  in  truth 
was  that  expression,  and  spoken  from  his  heart. 
But  it  fell  upon  deaf  ears.  He  watched  Jesse's  face 
narrowly,  and  failed  to  perceive  even  a  glance 
which  should  bid  him  to  hope.  This  confession 
obsessed  her.  The  idea  that  John  Canning  might 
return,  that  he  might  hear  good  news  from  her  lips, 

289 


THB   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

oh,  was  it  not  some  atonement  for  all  that  she  had 
suffered  in  the  darker  hours?  Nay,  her  eyes  told 
Blake  as  much,  and  he  had  no  courage  to  persist. 

"We  shall  be  off  here  more  or  less  until  the  be- 
ginning of  next  week,"  he  said;  "if  I  can  get  ashore 
I'll  be  here  like  a  shot — and,  be  sure,  I'll  write  to 
old  Fred  Willing  this  very  day  and  bring  you  his 
answer  myself.  Meanwhile,  if  there  is  anything  I 
can  do  for  you  here,  Miss  Jesse,  you  won't  forbid 
me  to  do  it,  I  know.  Please  treat  me  as  your 
brother — it  would  be  so  kind  of  you." 

She  gave  him  a  vague  promise,  the  new  hope  still 
animating  her.  When  he  left  her  it  was  upon  a 
renewal  of  the  promise  that  he  would  write  to  Lon- 
don, and  bring  her  the  letter  which  might  mean  so 
much  to  John  Canning  and  his  fortunes.  The  po- 
lice had  finished  their  search  by  this  time,  and  but 
one  remained  upon  a  plausible  excuse — posted  as  a 
sentry  about  the  house  and  very  kind  and  tactful  in 
all  his  expressions.  To  him  Blake  said  "Good 
night,"  and  slipped  half  a  sovereign  in  his  hand. 

"There  will  be  no  need  to  tell  the  young  lady 
anything,"  he  suggested, .  and  the  constable  agreed 
with  him.  "The  old  man  has  not  been  taken,  sir," 
he  rejoined,  "and  if  God  Almighty  has  judged  him, 
there's  no  need  for  us  to  do  anything." 

"Except  to  help  in  a  very  sad  case,  and  not  to 
forget  that  we  may  have  children  of  our  own.  I 

290 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

shall  be  to  and  fro  during  the  next  few  days,  ser- 
geant— don't  hesitate  to  send  down  to  the  ship  if 
you  think  I  can  help." 

"I  will  not,  sir — from  all  I  hear  you're  not  the 
first  young  gentleman  that  has  been  wishful  to  do 
so — and  some  of  'em  not  so  welcome  here.  There's 
that  young  Benson,  for  instance — the  brother  of 
him  that  first  informed  on  Fearney — you  would  do 
well  to  say  a  word  to  him,  I  think." 

Philip's  face  grew  dark. 

"What  has  he  been  doing,  sergeant?" 

"Ay,  that's  what  a  good  many  are  asking,  but 
he'll  do  precious  little  while  I'm  in  the  house,  and 
that  I  promise  him." 

He  said  no  more  and  they  parted  upon  it.  Half 
wray  down  the  cliff  road,  however,  Philip  met  Frank 
Benson  face  to  face,  and  was  instantly  recognized 
by  that  crafty  youth,  who  had  haunted  the  farm 
during  the  last  two  days,  and  purposed  so  to  haunt 
it  until  Japhon  Fearney  should  return. 

"Why,  it's  Lieutenant  Blake,"  he  exclaimed — 
and  added,  "Then  you've  been  up  to  the  farm,  eh, 
lieutenant?" 

Blake  looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot. 

"My  business,  sir — I  do  not  ask  yours." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  apologize.  The  police  have 
told  you  all  about  it,  I'm  sure.  This  is  Mr.  Can- 
ning's work,  this  is.  He  and  Jesse  were  going  off 

291 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

together,  but  the  old  man  got  wind  of  it.  Last 
Monday  night  she  never  went  back  to  the  farm  at 
all.  That's  a  fine  thing  to  hear,  isn't  it?  Pretty 
goings  on  for  such  a  place  as  Bell  Island,  you  must 
say?" 

Blake  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked. 

"What  you  like  to  make  of  it.  She  was  engaged 
to  me  once — I'm  jolly  glad  I  didn't  marry  her." 

"You  hound!    You  liar!" 

He  struck  him  full  in  the  face,  the  youth  reeling 
backward  from  him  and  lying  in  craven  terror  upon 
the  grass.  Now  was  Sir  Valiant  wearing  his 
armor  firmly,  hot  in  just  anger  and  nerved  to  sound 
judgments.  But  he  remembered,  as  he  hurried  on 
toward  the  ship,  that  yesterday  his  own  intention 
might  have  provoked  just  such  words  as  these,  and 
that  but  for  that  silent  knight,  Sir  Conscience,  who 
had  gone  up  to  the  lonely  farmhouse  with  him,  he, 
too,  might  have  been  as  little  worthy  of  men's  re- 
spect as  the  coward  he  had  left  on  the  cliffside  be- 
hind him. 


292 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AT  THE  CHATEAU  DE  NIVRES 

MADAME  DE  FAILES  had  gathered  an  odd  com- 
pany beneath  her  husband's  splendid  roof,  and  right 
well  they  amused  her  during  that  bright  month  of 
October,  when  "urgent  business"  still  detained  the 
Count  in  New  York. 

Here  you  would  find  an  actor  from  the  Bouffes 
cheek  by  jowl  with  a  Marquis  from  the  Basque 
provinces;  a  priest  of  the  Sorbonne  rubbing  shoul- 
ders with  a  professor  from  Boston;  a  dozen  aristo- 
crats whose  united  ages  would  not  have  aggregated 
a  hundred  years  whispering  undoubted  words  of 
wisdom  to  nymphs  of  like  juvenility.  Here,  a 
veritable  human  otta  podrida  kept  the  pot  of  humor 
boiling  all  the  day  and,  for  that  matter,  all  the 
night,  when  occasion  offered.  For  it  was  Madame's 
first  principle  of  existence  that  her  guests  must 
amuse  her ;  and  she  cared  not  whence  they  came  did 
they  but  bring  laughter  in  their  train. 

And  so  her  house  was  filled  by  those  whom  her 
husband  in  his  anger  had  not  hesitated  to  brand  as 
canaille.  Let  her  be  on  nodding  acquaintance  with 
any  merry  fellow  and  he  was  sure  of  an  invitation 

293 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

to  the  chateau.  Americans  who  knew  her  but  by 
name  presented  their  cards  at  the  gates  and  were 
often  impressed  into  her  service.  She  delighted  in 
the  very  novelty  of  it  all,  in  this  melange  of  bishops 
and  counts,  actors  and  artists,  singers  and  dancers. 
Pleasure  was  her  watchword,  and  pleasure  must  she 
reap  whatever  the  season.  Did  she  not  suffer 
enough  when  her  husband  was  at  home?  she  would 
ask  pathetically.  Be  sure  that  he  would  have  none 
of  these  folk.  They  vanished  as  the  mists  upon  his 
return — for  he  was  an  aristocrat  of  the  older  school, 
and  even  Madame  had  grown  to  be  frightened  of 
him. 

Now,  John  Canning  and  Ernest  Hobby  had  been 
plunged  into  this  sorry  whirlpool  just  upon  three 
weeks,  when  next  their  doings  concern  us — and 
cordial  indeed  had  been  Madame's  welcome  of 
them.  Canning  himself  interested  her  with  his 
pungent  talk  as  few  Englishmen  she  had  met — she 
felt  convinced  that  he  would  provoke  argument  of 
an  exciting  kind  at  her  table — while  as  for  his  little 
friend,  he  who  bowed  like  a  tailor  and  apologized 
upon  all  occasions,  was  not  he  as  amusing  as  an 
actor  from  the  Robiniere  and  far  more  obliging? 
If  to  this  must  be  added  the  foolish  conviction  that 
her  personal  charms  made  no  little  impression  upon 
a  man  who  had  a  physical  attraction  for  many 
women,  the  secret  of  her  hospitality  is  not  far  to 

294 


THB  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

guess.  She  had  invited  John  Canning  to  the  cha- 
teau that  she  might  add  one  to  her  many  conquests, 
a  phase  of  amusement  which  did  not  fail  to  enter- 
tain her,  and  for  which  the  years  fostered  a  keener 
inclination. 

So  here  he  was  in  the  thick  of  it  all,  the  foremost 
figure  in  the  fetes,  the  desired  among  few  desira- 
bles— and  here  was  Ernest  Hobby,  going  meekly 
and  a-tiptoe  over  the  velvet  pile,  wondering  at  his 
amazing  popularity,  half  fearing,  half  ashamed — 
but  at  heart  the  same  simple,  honest  fellow  that  we 
have  always  known  him  to  be.  As  for  the  rouged 
and  powdered  women  who  chaffed  or  made  mock 
love  to  him,  Hobby  did  not  care  a  snap  of  the  fin- 
gers for  them.  He  ate,  drank  and  made  moderately 
merry,  but  chiefly  he  followed  his  friend  as  a  faith- 
ful slave  of  the  lamp,  who  would  keep  the  flame  of 
his  friendship  bright  whatever  the  consequences. 

The  latter  errand  brought  him  to  Canning's  bed- 
room early  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-first  day, 
and  set  him  in  a  big  armchair  by  the  window, 
wherefrom  he  could  look  out  over  the  shallow  wa- 
ters of  the  beautiful  River  Loire,  and  watch  the 
gardeners  among  the  parterres  below.  Canning 
himself  was  but  just  awake.  A  budget  of  letters 
from  England  lay  unopened  on  his  bed.  Hobby 
glanced  at  them  aside,  but  did  not  dare  to  speak  all 
his  thoughts. 

295 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  expect  you're  tired  after  what  went  on  last 
night,"  he  began  with  some  hesitation — "I  must 
say  these  people  do  keep  it  up,  Canning.  They'd 
kill  me  if  I  stopped  here  long  enough." 

Canning  stretched  himself,  and  glancing  in  his 
turn  at  the  letters,  admitted  that  they  were  rather 
lively. 

"Let  me  see,  Hobby — what  did  we  do  after  sup- 
per? I  remember  the  swans  on  the  lake,  and  some 
ass  dubbing  me  the  son  of  Parzival.  After  that  we 
had  the  dancers  from  Smyrna  and  the  fiddlers  from 
Trieste.  Was  there  anything  else  which  was  par- 
ticularly agitating?" 

"Of  course  there  was — you  were  on  the  island 
half  the  night  with  Madame.  I  saw  you.  I  was 
supping  with  a  fairy  in  one  of  the  pavilions.  I  say, 
Canning,  don't  you  think  we  have  had  enough  of 
all  this?  I  like  a  dance  as  well  as  any  man,  and  I 
can  eat  a  good  supper  when  I  want  one — but  sup- 
ping at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  then  play- 
ing bridge  until  half-past  eight,  now  do  they  really 
like  it,  do  you  like  it,  does  any  one  like  it?  Isn't 
it  merely  the  same  sort  of  foolery  which  sends  a 
hundred  sheep  through  a  gate  because  one  has 
fallen  into  the  ditch  on  the  other  side  ?" 

Canning  laughed,  and  lay  back  on  the  pillow 
again. 

"These  people  are  like  Dickens'  cab  horse,"  he 
296 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

said;  "they  would  fall  down  if  you  took  them  out 
of  the  shafts.  I  admit  it's  all  moonshine  and  mad- 
ness, but  you're  none  the  worse  off  for  having  seen 
it,  and  I'll  show  you  something  better  before  many 
weeks  are  passed " 

"Weeks ! — 'you're  not  going  to  stop  here  weeks — 
why,  I  should  be  turned  into  a  marionette  if  I  didn't 
go  soon.  Let's  get  back  to  London,  old  chap — 
we're  safer  there." 

"Safer,  Hobby?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say.  This  kind  of  madness  is 
infectious.  You  can  catch  it,  and  when  you  catch  it, 
you  want  another  kind  of  madness  to  cure  you. 
Let's  go  to-morrow,  Canning;  I'm  sure  it's  better." 

"Impossible,  my  dear  Hobby.  Chardon  comes 
here  to  sing  to-morrow  and  there  is  the  bal  masque 
afterward.  I  have  sworn  great  oaths — I  cannot  go 
to-morrow." 

"Then  the  day  after — I'm  sure  you  would  like 
to  hear  the  news  from  Bell  Island.  I  know  you 
would." 

"What  news  can  I  expect  from  that  hole?" 

"Ah,  that's  what  I  don't  know.  But  I  believe 
there  is  news,  and  that  it  is  good  news.  Shall  we 
say  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"If  Madame  agrees — you  see,  we  owe  something 
to  her." 

"I  suppose  we  do,  Canning.  One  fool  always 
297 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

owes  something  to  another  who  led  him  to  make  an 
ass  of  himself.  Well,  I  shall  go  back  anyway.  I've 
seen  enough  of  what  you  call  the  world  to  last  me 
half  a  lifetime.  The  rest  can  wait — I'm  going 
round  the  universe  on  the  instalment  plan,  and  this 
is  the  first  year's  payment  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
My  dear  man,  such  a  crew  of  brainless  idiots  I 
never  imagined  let  loose  on  the  earth — all  the 
women  shrieking  like  parrots,  all  the  men  trying  to 
shut  them  down,  and  not  half  as  much  honest  en- 
joyment as  a  farm  hand  gets  at  a  fair.  Oh,  you 
may  keep  your  high  life  for  me — I'd  sooner  be  a 
tram  conductor,  upon  my  word  I  would." 

"But,  Hobby — think  of  your  educational  possi- 
bilities. Are  you  not  going  to  hunt  the  wild  boar 
to-day " 

"They  say  I  am.  It  seems  to  me  I've  been  hunt- 
ing him  for  the  last  three  weeks." 

"Learning  to  be  a  cynic,  too.  Well,  give  me  a 
few  hours  to  think  it  over.  I'm  not  sure  you  are 
not  right,  and  if  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you 
are " 

"If  you  do?" 

"We'll  be  in  Rome  in  sixty  hours  and  in  Venice 
a  week  afterward." 

Hobby  was  a  little  disappointed.  He  knew  the 
whole  story  of  Canning's  flight  from  Bell  Island  by 
this  time,  perceived  its  significance  and  the  moment 

298 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

of  it  so  far  as  his  friend's  future  was  concerned. 
A  true  diplomat,  he  would  risk  nothing  by  prema- 
ture action ;  but  he  kept  the  end  in  sight  and  was  as 
determined  that  his  friend  should  marry  Jesse  Fear- 
ney  as  ever  he  was  about  anything  in  the  whole 
story  of  his  determined  life.  Here,  he  thought,  sal- 
vation lay;  certainly  it  did  not  lie  in  this  fetid  at- 
mosphere of  musk  and  patchouli,  of  garden  fetes 
and  masked  balls,  of  suppers  when  men  should  be 
breakfasting  and  of  breakfasts  when  men  should  be 
supping.  Hobby's  subtirbanism  was  elated  by  none 
of  these  things.  He  took  them  at  their  true  value — 
no  costly  estimate  where  such  a  reckoning  was  to 
be  made. 

We  find  him,  then,  content  with  John  Canning's 
vague  promises,  and  an  apparently  indifferent  par- 
ticipator in  the  sports  of  the  ensuing  day.  These 
were  to  consist  chiefly  of  a  wild-boar  hunt  in  the 
forest  of  Nivres,  an  event  of  which  young  men 
spoke  as  though  some  dangerous  arena  were  to  be 
invaded,  and  the  spirits  of  dead  gladiators  sum- 
moned to  their  assistance.  Nay,  the  whole  court- 
yard reeked  of  this  mock  pageantry  when  the  Eng- 
lishman appeared  there  some  half  an  hour  later,  and 
discovered  a  scene  which  would  have  delighted  the 
heart  of  old  Rabelais  himself.  What  a  curving  and 
pirouetting  of  magnificent  horses !  What  grotesque 
effigies  of  sportsmen !  What  laughing,  ogling,  sigh- 

299 


_   THE   FORTUNATE.   PRISONER 

ing  dames  come  out  to  bid  these  vain  cavaliers  God- 
speed! And  behind  them  all  the  massive  walls  of 
the  old  chateau,  which  had  husbanded  the  sighs  of 
the  Pompadour  and  had  echoed  the  tread  of  the 
great  Cardinal  himself.  Here  was  something,  for  a 
modern  keeper  of  the  chroniques  scandaleiises — 
even  John  Canning  laughed,  admitted  its  drollery. 

There  is  no  particular  reason  why  a  young  man 
who  would  hunt  the  wild  boar  should  wear  a  suit  of 
black  and  white  checks,  a  Tyrol  hat  in  a  fine  shade 
of  green,  leggings  of  a  brilliant  yellow,  and  suede 
gloves  of  even  a  more  alarming  tint.  This  ap- 
peared to  be  the  common  costume.  There  were  full 
a  dozen  of  such  valiants,  to  say  nothing  of  my  Lady 
Diana  praying  for  the  groves,  and  of  the  more  se- 
date members  of  the  company  thinking  already  of 
dejeuner  within  and  not  of  the  forest  without. 
Prominent  among  the  latter  was  the  Bishop  of 
Nivres  himself — a  fine  white-haired  old  courtier  and 
a  very  descendant  of  that  Nicolas — Jean  de  Dieu 
Soult,  who  was  Duke  of  Dalmatia  and  a  Marshal 
of  France.  He  moved  leisurely  amid  the  throng, 
the  purple  stock  relieving  the  sombre  black  of  his 
cassock  and  a  gentle  smile  of  pity  adding  benig- 
nity to  a  classic  face.  For  each  and  all  he  had  the 
same  greeting— "You  go  to  the  chase.  Ah,  my 
brave,  good  luck  go  with  you !" 

Brave,  truly,  at  the  outset  and  what  a  gaudy 
300 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

cavalcade  to  quit  the  chateau  gates  and  plunge  into 
the  heart  of  the  sylvan  forest,  grown  a  little  sad 
these  autumn  days,  but  still  showing  you  many  a 
patch  of  sunshine  in  the  intervals  of  trees!  Here, 
said  history,  the  eternal  Diana,  she  of  Poictiers  and 
the  salamander,  had  roved  afar  with  Henry  and 
with  Francis;  here  the  Due  de  Guise  had  hunted 
but  a  few  short  weeks  before  they  slew  him  at  Blois, 
and  the  King  his  master  remarked  coldly,  upon  see- 
ing his  corpse,  that  he  had  thought  he  had  been 
taller — and  here,  now  at  the  beginning  of  the  twen- 
tieth century,  went  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Failes, 
nee  Judith  Cartwright  of  Philadelphia,  upon  a 
prancing  white  horse  which  had  come  out  of  Araby, 
and  clothed  in  a  gown  which  even  the  critics  of 
Paris  would  style  le  dernier  cri.  No  pageant,  for 
sure,  had  inspired  a  finer  energy  since  Madame 
DuBarry  led  the  frolics  in  these  very  glades  and  a 
King  was  named  the  "well-beloved"  at  her  bidding. 
The  gay  laughter,  the  gaudy  dresses,  the  ambling 
horses,  the  fine  greenswards,  rough  woodlanders  in 
stout  homespuns,  the  burns  splashing  amid  gnarled 
trunks  and — distant,  but  never  long  hidden  from 
their  view,  the  fine  turrets  and  matchless  spires  of 
the  Chateau  de  Nivres — oh,  it  was  well  enough,  as  a 
cynic  would  have  admitted. 

Now  Madame  took  care  to  keep  Canning  in  her 
train,  and,  as  they  went,  she  told  him  something  of 

301 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

the  hunting  which  was  to  follow.  Butts  had  been 
built,  it  appeared,  to  shelter  this  gallant  company. 
Whatever  the  glories  of  sport  in  other  lands,  Sir 
Lord  Pig  must  go  at  some  disadvantage  in  this. 
No  sticking  here — no  wild  gallops — not,  at  any  rate, 
until  the  boar  was  dead  and  the  keepers  were  deal- 
ing with  his  carcass. 

"Why,  there  isn't  a  man  of  them  would  come  if  I 
didn't,"  she  said,  referring  to  the  butts;  "do  you 
know  that  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  San  Rosas 
spent  two  hours  yesterday  morning  shooting  black- 
birds, and  brought  one  home  tied  to  the  end  of  a 
stick?  We  send  the  keepers  into  the  wood  to  drive 
the  boars  out  and  then  we  shoot  at  them.  Now, 
isn't  that  fine?" 

"For  the  keepers?"  Canning  asked.  She  didn't 
like  that. 

"You  English  think  you  are  the  only  sportsmen 
in  the  world.  I  guess  that's  your  vanity.  Why 
should  we  be  gored  by  pigs  if  we  don't  feel  like  it? 
I  don't  see  the  necessity." 

"Most  prudent,  Countess.  This  is  an  age  which 
takes  to  butts  generally  when  there  is  any  trouble 
about.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  Credit  me  with  no 
desire  at  all  to  become  a  martyr — I'll  be  first  into 
the  shelters  when  the  fun  begins." 

"Then  it's  going  to  begin  now.  This  is  the  Gorge 
of  the  Three  Cascades — we  shall  find  a  boar  here  if 

302 


THE,   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

we  have  any  luck.  Of  course  they  won't  let  the 
girls  come — they  say  it's  too  dangerous." 

"A  noble  sentiment.  Does  the  boar  appear  upon 
the  particular  scene  they  choose  for  him?" 

"Well,  I  hope  so — I  should  have  a  fit  if  he  came 
my  way." 

She  laughed  and  summoned  the  head  keeper  to 
her  side.  The  scene  they  had  chosen  disclosed  a 
rugged  cliff  on  the  right  hand,  down  which  there 
trickled  three  considerable  cascades.  A  wood  lay 
beyond  on  the  higher  ground  and  a  big  grassy 
mound  on  the  left.  Here  the  ladies  of  the  party 
were  to  be  anchored,  lusty  keepers  protecting  them, 
while  the  men  circumvented  the  thicket  and  took 
up  their  stations  on  the  hither  side  of  it.  The  latter 
proceeding  evidently  was  not  much  to  the  taste  of 
some  of  the  gallant  sportsmen  who  went  a-tiptoe 
and  with  caution.  The  premature  appearance  of  a 
slinking  fox  caused  a  veritable  hullabaloo,  some  of 
the  cavaliers  running  like  athletes,  others  crying 
"Ciel !"  But  this  alarm  soon  passed — the  ladies  were 
herded  on  the  green  mound,  my  lords  conducted  to 
the  distant  butts  before  the  wood  from  which  the 
lordly  pig  should  be  driven.  And  once  within  the 
sheltering  bulwarks  the  old  ferocity  of  demeanor 
was  easily  reassumed.  Ah,  there  were  fierce  ejacu- 
lations now ! 

So  behold  twenty  check-suited  men,  one  resem- 

303 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

bling  the  other  as  a  pea  resembles  a  brother  pea, 
herded  together  in  this  pen  for  the  applause  of 
Diana  upon  the  mountain.  The  bold  keepers  had 
plunged  into  the  copse  by  this  time  and  were  shout- 
ing their  resonant  cries  of  "Marchez!  En  avant! 
Allez  done !"  until  the  very  welkin  rang.  The  sports- 
men, thrusting  cartridges  into  their  rifles,  peered 
from  the  fastness  as  though  cavalry  was  about  to 
debouch  from  the  wood.  Anon  comes  the  boar — 
slowly,  with  meditative  step,  snout  still  rooting, 
wicked  little  eyes  turning  this  way,  that  way,  every 
way.  What  the  devil  does  all  this  commotion 
mean?  He  has  not  sensitive  nerves — but  really  at 
twelve  o'clock  of  the  day!  Are  these  men  drunk? 
He  has  seen  them  often  in  the  forest  from  the  se- 
clusion of  his  cave  which  brigands  of  long  ago  were 
good  enough  to  build  him.  He  could  tell  tales 
perchance — of  mademoiselle  yonder  with  the  witch- 
ing eyes  and  that  frowsy  poet  who  is  her  faithful 
cavalier,  of  Madame  la  Marquise  and  the  painter 
Andreot;  of  these  and  of  many  another — but  he 
has  never  said  a  word.  Bless  him,  he  would  not 
open  his  lips,  on  any  account — yet  here  are  all  these 
people  staring  at  him,  and  what  a  din!  Young 
man,  he  seems  to  say,  be  careful  of  that  gun,  for  if 
it  goes  off  it  will  kill  somebody. 

Now,  Master  Boar  had  hardly  showed  himself  on 
the  fringe  of  the  wood  when,  contrary  to  all  the 

304 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

rules  of  the  game,  the  Chevalier  Orson,  a  meek 
sportsman  of  thirty  years,  let  fly  at  him,  to  the  im- 
minent danger  of  the  beaters  behind  and  the  exas- 
peration of  the  head  keeper  in  front.  Wild  shouts 
and  cries  rent  the  air.  The  ladies,  penned  on  the 
mound,  clapped  their  hands  altogether  and  cried 
"Bravo !"  The  fierce  pig,  snout  upward,  eyes  blazing, 
turned  sharply  to  re-enter  the  wood  and  sent  twenty 
of  the  groundsmen  to  the  shelter  of  twenty  trees. 
Ay,  now  is  the  hullabaloo  at  its  best!  The  con- 
cealed army  of  sharpshooters  fire  like  an  infantry 
squad.  The  guns  go  off  in  numbers — bark  flies 
from  the  trees ;  the  gravel  is  scoured,  the  leaves  are 
torn.  Wounded  in  a  dozen  places,  the  wretched 
beast  begins  to  run  round  and  round.  A  dog  ap- 
proaches him  and  is  instantly  ripped  up  as  a  sack 
by  a  knife.  He  charges  the  trees  blindly,  believing 
in  his  madness  that  these  are  the  enemies.  And  all 
the  time  the  firing  does  not  cease — the  crack  of 
rifles  resounds,  the  bullets  wing  their  hadardous 
way  until,  with  a  mighty  shout  of  triumph,  my  lord 
falls  headlong  and  the  beaters  are  upon  him.  Ah, 
the  glory  of  it!  Ah,  the  ecstasy  of  the  sportsman's 
life! 

There  was  but  a  single  pig  in  this  copse  and 
much  shouting  failed  to  disclose  another.  This  did 
not  disturb  the  company,  of  which  each  man  be- 
lieved that  his  bullet  had  found  a  billet,  and  that 

305 


he  was  the  hero  of  the  death  cry.  Hunger,  a  pow- 
erful rival,  began  also  to  press  his  claim,  since  it  was 
commonly  admitted  that  adequate  glory  had  been 
achieved,  and  that  soles  a  la  Victoria  might  have 
their  turn.  So,  emerging,  the  valiants  made  for 
the  striped  marquee  in  which  Chef  Andre  from  a 
famous  restaurant  had  prepared  his  wares — and 
here  dejeuner  at  well-placed  tables  soon  made 
amends  for  danger  and  the  strife.  What  a  con- 
tention now  for  places!  The  laggards  had  driven 
over  from  the  chateau,  be  it  known,  and  Mon- 
seigneur  with  them — but  no  one  seemed  desirous  to 
establish  a  menage  d  qitatre  with  him  when  he 
took  his  rightful  place  at  Madame's  table — Judith 
must  tolerate  the  dear  good  man  for  her  husband's 
sake — besides,  as  she  added  naively,  had  not  Provi- 
dence already  inflicted  him  with  that  tolerant  blind- 
ness which  sees  little  beyond  the  end  of  the  nose 
and  is  not  desirous  of  seeing  further?  She  could 
accept  any  episcopacy  on  such  terms — her  case 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  harder  had  the  Rev. 
Joshua  Wagg,  her  own  minister  from  Philadelphia, 
arrived  unexpectedly  at  the  chateau. 

It  was  a  dainty  repast,  elegantly  served  and 
owing  not  a  little  to  a  day  of  soft  sunshine  and  gen- 
tle breezes.  The  rains  of  autumn  had  given  place  to 
this  St.  Martin's  summer,  permitting  unexpected 
pageantry  and  many  a  woodland  romance  that 

306 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

would  never  have  survived  the  umbrellas.  And 
when  it  was  done  what  more  natural  than  that  the 
company  should  break  up — not  into  units,  to  be 
sure,  but  a  choix,  as  the  catalogues  say,  and  done 
with  an  artless  simplicity  which  spoke  both  of  free- 
dom and  of  habit.  God  help  my  lord  Bishop  now, 
for  no  one  wants  him — and  he  must  walk  back 
through  the  forest  with  young  Vambret,  the  penni- 
less poet  of  the  Butte,  who  will  try  to  borrow  a 
hundred  francs  of  him  as  they  go.  For  the  rest, 
Madame  is  with  Canning,  of  course — and  that  little 
Ernest  Hobby,  has  not  he  gone  off  by  himself  to 
make  a  drawing  of  Joan  of  Arc's  tower,  as  he  had 
no  shame  to  confess?  Here  was  discretion,  to  be 
sure — Canning  wondered  at  Hobby  and  so  did 
Madame. 

"Why,  what  can  you  have  in  common  with  such 
a  dear,  good,  foolish  little  man  as  that?"  she  asked 
as  they  rode  away.  "I'm  sure  a  fox  terrier  would 
be  just  as  useful." 

"I  suppose  he  would — he  is  my  confessor,  you 
must  know.  Whenever  I  do  anything  foolish  I  go 
to  Ernest  Hobby,  and  tell  him  what  an  ass  I  have 
been.  Then  he  apologizes." 

"Are  you  really  going  to  take  him  to  Rome  and 
to  Venice — he  told  me  so  yesterday." 

"It's  quite  true — I  am  going  to  walk  the  aisles 
of  St.  Peter's  and  talk  of  the  archilids — as  many 

307 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

of  them  as  I  remember.  We  shall  dine  at  seven 
o'clock  every  night  and  go  to  bed  at  ten.  Perhaps 
we  shall  hire  guides.  I  am  a  very  ignorant  man, 
and  while  I  remember  the  pictures  I  have  no  head 
for  the  painters.  It  will  be  the  day  after  to-morrow 
that  we  shall  leave — with  your  gracious  permis- 
sion." 

"Then  it  will  not  be  the  day  after  to-morrow  at 
all.  Why  should  you  go?  Are  you  really  perish- 
ing to  do  Rome?  It  will  still  be  there  if  you  go 
next  month.  And  I  want  you  here — I  shall  cer- 
tainly forbid  it." 

She  looked  charming,  Canning  thought,  in  her 
close-fitting  green  habit  and  the  dainty  hat  which 
had  come  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  A 
woman  of  mature  figure  and  clear  open  eyes,  of  a 
high  brow  and  brown  hair  swept  well  back  from  it 
— of  fine  rounded  limbs  and  shapely  hands — but, 
above  all,  a  woman  who  had  learned  how  to  com- 
mand and  had  profited  by  her  lessons.  Canning  ad- 
mitted all  this  as  he  strode  at  her  side,  he  knew  not 
whither  and  cared  less.  Surely  the  world  had  not 
done  so  well  by  him  that  he  needed  to  remember 
to-morrow. 

"If  you  don't  permit  it,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  shall 
have  to  break  the  news  to  my  warm-hearted  friend. 
But  he  will  never  forgive  you  for  not  letting  him 
escape— he  is  that  kind  of  man — and  you  frighten 

308 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

him.  I  can  see  it  whenever  he  is  at  your  table.  He 
g-oes  in  awe  of  you,  Countess — he  is  just  like  a  boy 
in  a  class  who  may  be  called  upon  to  construe  pres- 
ently and  doesn't  know  the  text.  He  may  even 
think  that  you  are  going  to  box  his  ears." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  if  he  continues  to  be  obstinate. 
Why,  you  have  only  been  at  the  chateau  a  few  days 
— and  I  want  you  so  much.  Say,  Mr.  Canning, 
isn't  that  something  you  know  already — that  I  want 
you  here  very  much  ?" 

She  pressed  her  horse  quite  close  to  him  and  laid 
a  little  hand  upon  his  arm.  They  had  drawn  away 
from  the  others  to  a  lonely  place  of  the  forest — to  a 
leafy  glade  through  which  the  sunlight  streamed  at 
hazard,  and  the  song  of  the  burn  rang  musically  in 
their  ears.  As  a  sound  afar,  there  came  to  them 
the  voices  of  the  huntsmen,  the  lighter  laughter  of 
girls  and  even  the  murmur  of  songs.  This  place 
had  been  called  the  River  of  Dark  Waters  by  the 
old  romancers — if  it  had  been  named  the  River  of 
Sighs  the  style  would  have  been  more  apposite. 
And  to  such  a  spot  Madame  had  led  her  victim  for 
one  of  those  aimless  flirtations  which  delighted 
her. 

"Now,  don't  you  know  it,  Mr.  Canning?"  she  per- 
sisted ;  and  he  was  not  flattered,  but  amused,  for  he 
knew  women  well. 

"I  have  just  said  that  I  am  a  most  ignorant  man. 

309 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

You  must  begin  upon  my  education,  Countess.  You 
say  that  you  want  me  here — well,  here  I  am.  Isn't 
that  something  to  begin  upon  ?" 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  myself,  my  diffi- 
culties, my  ambitions.  You  are  just  such  a  friend 
as  I  have  been  looking  for  a  long  while — the  man 
a  woman  can  talk'  to  without  any  reserve.  You 
know  my  husband  leaves  me  very  much  alone?" 

"Do  you  ever  tell  him  that?" 

She  looked  at  him  almost  angrily. 

"When  a  man  leaves  a  woman  alone,  she  is  a 
coward  to  call  him  back.  He  married  me  to  rebuild 
the  chateau,  and  he  has  done  it.  He  says  tkat 
America  owes  France  her  independence  and  ought 
to  pay  the  bill.  Why,  I've  paid  it  twice  over  and 
he's  gone  to  America  now  to  see  if  he  can  have  the 
money  a  third  time.  That's  romance  as  the  novel- 
ists write  it.  Oh,  if  you  knew  the  scenes  we  have 
in  this  old  chateau — which  the  guide-books  tell  you 
is  the  most  peaceful  place  in  all  France.  Even  the 
servants  won't  stay  with  me.  Now  do  you  wonder 
if  I  want  a  friend?" 

"You  have  many  friends,  I  am  sure.  Am  I  the 
least  devoted  of  them?" 

"I  believe  that  you  are.  There's  not  a  more  diffi- 
cult man  in  France.  You  can  be  everything  a 
woman  desires,  I  know  it — but  since  you  have  been 
here  you  have  been  less  than  nothing  at  all.  Now, 

310 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

truthfully  and  between  friends,  didn't  you  leave 
England  because  of  a  woman  ?" 

He  was  staggered  by  the  question.  No  shaft 
could  have  gone  home  with  aim  more  unerring. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked,  hiding  his  face 
from  her — "who  has  been  gossiping  about  me?" 

"A  woman's  instinct.  Do  you  suppose  any  man 
could  hide  that  from  me?  You  quarreled  with  her 
and  came  here  in  a  huff.  Perhaps  it's  an  old  story. 
What  have  you  been  doing  in  London  all  these 
years?  I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  you. 
Why,  that's  the  answer  in  itself.  She  didn't  like 
London,  perhaps — it  was  a  romance  in  a  wood  and 
the  farmer  sent  the  vegetables.  Do  be  kind  and  tell 
me.  It  will  be  better  than  a  novel." 

He  mumbled  an  incoherent  answer.  Oddly 
enough,  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  story 
of  his  life  might  follow  him  even  to  these  glades. 
They  had  left  London  upon  an  impulse,  just  raced 
away  as  boys  at  a  call,  without  thought  or  reckon- 
ing— and  now  came  the  breathing  space.  He  looked 
at  Judith  de  Failes  and  determined  that  she  knew 
nothing.  "But  she  will  learn  the  truth,"  he  said — 
and  the  fear  haunted  him. 

How  if  some  one  proclaimed  him  felon  even  in 
that  company  of  irresponsibles?  What  shame! 
What  humiliation!  And  why  should  he  not  be  re- 
venged upon  mere  possibility  by  anticipation? 

3" 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

What  forbade  him  to  make  love  to  this  woman,  to 
throw  prudence,  honor,  respect  to  the  winds?  Did 
he  owe  anything  to  society  which  had  made  of  him 
an  outlaw?  In  truth,  he  owed  nothing. 

"I  will  tell  you  where  I  have  been,  and  what  I 
have  been  doing,  when  I  am  convinced  that  you 
will  keep  my  secret,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  This 
was  a  thrust  indeed. 

"Why  do  you  think  so  badly  of  me  as  that?" 

"Convince  me  that  even  one  woman  is  to  be 
trusted,  and  I  will  tell  you — perhaps." 

"How  shall  I  convince  you?  Why,  of  course  I 
will  if  you  will  show  me  how." 

He  laughed  hardly. 

"Oh,  you  must  find  the  way.  I  am  merely  stating 
the  conditions." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  doubt — my  friendship?" 

"I  doubt  the  sympathetic  note  in  the  gamut  of  the 
feminine  emotions.  Why  compel  me  to  say  so  ?  Is 
it  not  much  better  not  to  know  all  about  your 
friends?  For  instance,  my  dear  lady,  how  very  lit- 
tle I  know  about  you." 

She  laughed  now,  a  sudden  perception  declaring 
her  opportunity. 

"Come,  and  you  shall  be  my  confessor.  There's 
my  little  Pavilion  of  Roses  where  I  make  'five 
o'clock'  when  the  weather  is  warm  enough.  We'll 
go  and  have  tea  now,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  tale — oh, 

312 


THH   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

of  course  you  have  the  right  to  know  everything. 
I  never  thought  of  it." 

Ah,  delicious  comedy,  to  the  man  alarming,  to  the 
woman  a  harvest  of  possibilities!  What  lies  she 
would  tell  him  presently — and  how  fine  a  figure 
should  the  little  god  Love  play  in  them !  She  would 
speak  of  passion  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  whimper  a 
mock  confession  with  her  hand  in  his,  sigh  upon  a 
tragedy  with  half-closed  lids  and  murmuring  lips. 
The  Pavilion  of  the  Roses  was  the  very  place.  She 
had  carried  him  there  for  no  other  reason. 

Now,  this  was  a  little  building  of  timber  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  forest,  girt  about  with  trailing 
roses  and  full  of  sweetness.  Here  Madame  took  tea 
with  her  friends  when  the  sun  permitted,  here  she 
had  languished  and  sighed  many  a  time  and  oft — 
but  never  with  such  a  masterful  cavalier  or  one  so 
difficult.  John  Canning,  for  sure,  was  no  knight  of 
the  picture-books.  Perchance  but  for  her  questions 
she  would  have  found  him  the  sorriest  of  lovers — 
but  opportunity  had  befriended  her,  opportunity 
and  a  man's  bitterness,  his  revolt  against  the  civi- 
lized order,  his  defiance  of  the  fates  which  bade  him 
suffer.  And  he  went  with  her,  asking  what  forbade 
him  to  play  the  comedy  to  the  end.  Was  it  not 
some  reward  to  watch  these  large  eyes  beaming 
upon  him,  to  be  with  the  voluptuous  Judith  as  she 
busied  herself  about  the  Pavilion,  setting  great  arm- 

313 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

chairs  to  the  table,  boiling  her  little  tin  kettle,  bar- 
ing her  fine  arms  as  a  kitchen  maid,  laughing  al- 
ways and  promising  to  confess?  Oh,  this  was  the 
dangerous  hour,  and  God  knows  where  it  would 
have  led  him  but  for  that  blundering  little  friend  of 
his,  who  came  knocking  at  the  door  presently  and' 
crying  to  come  in. 

Madame  started  at  the  sound,  and  drew  back 
from  the  table  in  some  affright.  Her  Knight,  how- 
ever, already  guessed  the  truth  and  made  haste  to 
open. 

"Why,  Hobby — where  have  you  sprung  from?" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Canning,  I  lost  my  way — do 
you  mind  showing  me  how  to  get  back  to  the 
chateau  ?" 

Of  course  Madame  invited  him  in  at  once.  Noth- 
ing else  was  to  be  done.  He  had  lost  his  way — the 
poor,  simple,  good-natured  little  man — and  losing  it, 
he  had  pointed  out  a  better  road  to  him  he  served 
with  so  faithful  a  friendship. 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  RIDDLE  OF  THE  CHARADE 

THEY  rode  home  together,  avoiding  all  reference 
to  the  nature  of  the  encounter  and  treating  it  with 
that  proper  abandon  which  is  a  woman's  surest  de- 
fence. If  Madame  believed  that  the  intrusion  was 
an  unhappy  accident,  Canning  knew  better,  and 
was  not  ungrateful  to  his  friend.  None  the  less  a 
certain  defiance  warred  upon  gratitude,  and  for- 
bade the  expression  of  his  thoughts  whatever  the 
opportunities.  It  had  come  to  something  if  this 
man  must  wafch  him  as  a  tutor  watches  a  boy. 
Was  he  not  old  enough  to  know  his  own  mind,  well 
schooled  enough  to  choose  his  own  path?  None 
but  a  bourgeois  would  have  done  such  a  thing,  he 
said — and  did  not  disguise  his  pleasure. 

Here  was  the  secret  of  his  after  acts.  A  cool, 
clear  head  should  have  sent  him  from  the  chateau 
at  once — it  mattered  not  whither.  But  pride  de- 
tained him.  He  must  show  the  blunderer  that  he 
was  master  of  himself,  that  he  needed  no  common 
platitudes  to  guide  him  and  resented  espionage  as  a 
vulgarity.  Obstinately  refusing  even  to  mention 
the  matter  to  Hobby,  he  flirted  outrageously  with 

315 


THE  FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 

Madame  that  night;  was  her  constant  companion 
in  the  forest  and  the  gardens  next  day,  and  openly 
declared  at  her  dinner  table  that  he  would  not  leave 
the  chateau  for  a  month.  This  resolution  he  might 
have  made  good  but  for  the  simplest  of  happenings, 
indeed  but  for  one  of  those  obvious  domestic  acci- 
dents which  even  the  disingenuous  might  anticipate. 
There  had  been  a  mock  gymkhana  that  day,  a 
motor  tournament  upon  the  great  grass  plateau  by 
the  river,  and  much  chopping  of  Turks'  heads  and 
assaults  upon  inoffensive  lemons.  Judith,  herself, 
was  a  skilled  driver  and  could  fling  her  mecanicien 
out  of  the  car  upon  a  sharp  corner  as  well  as  any 
chauffeur  in  Touraine.  To-day  she  drove  a  fine 
Itala,  which  a  strong  man  might  have  envied  her, 
and  none  was  cleverer  or  more  self-possessed.  Es- 
pecially did  the  passengers'  race  amuse  Judith,  and 
the  attempts  of  the  lady  drivers  to  get  the  males 
quickly  to  their  seats.  Some  we  must  admit  solved 
the  difficulty  by  permitting  mere  men  to  pick  them 
up  in  their  arms  and  carry  them.  Others,  scarcely 
less  sedate,  raced  hand  in  hand  like  children  and 
tumbled  into  their  seats  breathless  and  disarrayed. 
For  this  was  a  business  whose  success  lay  in  the 
swiftness  with  which  you  drove  a  car  two  hundred 
yards,  then  raced  for  a  sitting  passenger,  got  him 
into  your  car  and  raced  again  for  the  winning  post. 
And  being  such  a  race  the  young  approved  of  it 
316 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

highly,  playing  the  game  with  laughter  and  even 
with  sighs. 

Later  on  came  Cimmerian  darkness,  a  cold  wind 
of  eventide  and  a  flight  to  the  house  for  children's 
pastimes,  for  such  they  played  in  the  stolen  hours — > 
until  the  gong  of  bells  called  them  to  the  great  hall 
where  Frangois  Premier  had  inscribed  his  salaman- 
der and  Henry  Deux  had  not  failed  to  imitate  him. 
This  was  a  more  stately  meal — an  interregnum  of 
the  imbecilities.  Monseigneur  had  his  chance  now, 
and  would  discourse  learnedly  of  Pascal  and  the 
poets,  even  of  Saint-Beuve  and  of  Balzac.  It  mat- 
tered not  that  no  one  listened — Monseigneur  was 
satisfied. 

And  afterward  to  the  charades.  This  was  Ju- 
dith's great  idea.  She  would  have  the  charades  be- 
loved of  her  ancestors— costumes  from  the  house  of 
Berliet  Freres  at  Paris,  music  by  an  orchestra  from 
La  Scala,  wonderful  gifts  to  the  guessers  aright — 
and  afterward  the  bal  masque  wherein  the  frivoli- 
ties should  culminate.  If  Monseigneur  had  been 
neglected  these  twenty  days  and  more,  here  he  was 
not  neglected  at  all.  Had  not  his  wit  planned  the 
thing?  Had  not  his  been  the  brain  which  evolved  the 
pictures?  And  he  was  here,  there  and  everywhere 
at  the  appointed  hour,  behind  the  scenes  and  before 
them — a  bustling,  smiling  Bishop,  who  had  not  an 
enemy  in  all  the  world. 

317 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Canning  came  late  to  the  little  theatre,  for  he 
had  been  writing  a  secret  letter  to  Abraham  Wesson 
in  London,  asking  that  worthy  to  get  him  all  the 
news  of  Bell  Island  there  was  to  be  had,  and  to  for- 
ward it  to  the  Ritz  Hotel,  at  Paris.  He  had  seen 
nothing  of  Madame  Judith  at  the  dinner  table,  for 
she  put  him  purposely  vis-&-vis  to  that  vastly  un- 
entertaining  beauty,  Mademoiselle  Denouf  of  the 
Comedie  Franchise,  and  he  had  not  been  so  bored 
for  a  month.  Here,  in  the  theatre,  his  spirits 
warmed  a  little.  He  was  quite  sure  that  the  cha- 
rades would  be  very  childish  and  very  silly,  but  he 
could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  gazing  upon 
her  ladyship  in  the  guise  of  a  Turkish  beauty,  nor 
of  hailing  her  attendant  pasha  in  the  ridiculous  fig- 
ure of  the  Marquis  de  Bonnes  Delices.  So  he  went 
down  about  ten  o'clock,  when  the  fiddlers  were  just 
thumbing  their  fiddles  and  the  "wind"  were  quarrel- 
ing about  the  pitch  in  a  way  that  fiddlers  will  and 
the  "wind"  are  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

Now  here,  to  be  honest,  a  charming  picture  was 
to  be  enjoyed,  a  scene  which  would  have  done  no 
shame  to  the  days  of  a  greater  glory  and  a  truer 
aristocracy.  The  little  theatre  itself,  built  by 
DuBarry  for  the  delectation  of  her  far  from  merry 
monarch,  was  lighted  by  hundreds  of  shell-like  lamps 
depending  from  the  rarest  chandeliers  of  old  Vene- 
tian glass.  Pink  and  golden  in  scheme,  the  ladies 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

declared  that  it  suited  their  complexions  to  perfec- 
tion and  were  incessant  in  its  praises,  as  well  they 
might  be  when  the  cost  of  it  was  reckoned.  For 
Madame  Judith  had  spared  nothing.  Banks  of 
flowers,  roses,  though  the  season  was  November, 
the  rarest  palms  and  shrubs  from  the  African 
shores,  lent  their  aid  to  that  kaleidoscope  of  glow- 
ing colors  and  heroic  figures.  And  the  dresses! 
Ah,  bon  Dieu,  as  the  servants'  hall  exclaimed  next 
day,  the  dresses!  Was  ever  such  a  wealth  of  lace 
and  chiffon,  of  silk  and  costly  stuffs,  of  blazing 
diamonds  and  monster  pearls,  was  ever  such  a  treas- 
ure house  opened  before  at  a  woman's  bidding  and 
at  the  dictates  of  her  vanity? 

Upon  such  a  scene  John  Canning  descended  some 
few  minutes  before  the  curtain  should  have  been 
lifted.  A  man  of  many  moods,  to-day  this  mood 
was  restless  and  cynical.  The  letter  just  despatched 
to  old  Abraham  Wesson  could  not  be  forgotten,  be- 
cause the  post  had  engulfed  it.  He  was  angry  with 
himself  because  he  had  been  angry  with  his  friend, 
and  yet  not  unwilling  to  laugh  at  the  episode.  Oh, 
be  sure  vanity  had  wounded  him  lightly  enough 
and  merely  annoyed  him  now.  He  was  dwelling 
in  this  house  of  farce,  he  said,  because  a  good  man 
had  dared  him  not  to  do  so.  Nothing  amused  him 
here.  He  walked  in  hourly  dread  of  discovery, 
saying  to  himself,  "Good  God!  if  they  knew,  if  she 


WHH  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

knew!"  His  desire  to  quit  the  house  upon  the  first 
decent  opportunity  warred  perpetually  upon  his  de- 
termination to  establish  his  prerogative  to  remain. 
For  Judith  Cartwright,  become  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  de  Failes,  he  had  none  of  that  sentiment  which 
is  really  dangerous.  He  could  leave  her  to-morrow 
without  a  sigh — as  she  could  permit  him  to  go  with 
an  emotion  no  more  overpowering.  A  prisoner  for 
the  time  being — pride  in  his  own  will  power  de- 
tained him.  That  he  should  be  lectured  by  Sub- 
urbia in  the  person  of  Ernest  Hobby!  It  was  too 
ridiculous. 

And  so  here  he  sat  amid  a  babel  of  tongues,  be- 
fore an  orchestra  already  at  the  death  grip  with  the 
erring  but  forgiven  Tannhauser — a  lonely  man 
turning  from  the  very  friendship  which  should  have 
been  his  consolation.  When  the  music  rolled  away 
in  that  massive  crescendo  of  the  Pilgrims'  Chorus — 
•when  the  instruments  were  put  down  and  nothing 
but  a  raucous  echo  of  voices  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  curtain,  he  was  interested  for  the  first 
time.  Were  these  fools  quarreling  behind  the  cur- 
tain and  would  they  quarrel  presently  before  it? 
That  would  be  a  delightful  interlude — as  comic  as 
anything  in  Labiche  and  as  unexpected ! 

Now,  the  house  perceived  the  hitch  and  fell  in- 
stantly to  expectant  silence.  Whatever  it  might  be, 
something  clearly  had  happened.  Daring  to  breathe 

320 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

in  the  hush,  a  youth  suggested  that  Monseigneur  had 
been  marshaling  the  shepherdesses  from  Cyprus, 
perhaps,  and  that  one  of  them  might  have  boxed 
his  ears.  Another,  not  less  venturesome,  and  he 
from  the  distant  Americas,  "guessed  that  the  ma- 
chinery wasn't  fixed,"  but  was  silenced  immediately. 
Finally  and  quite  unexpectedly,  the  curtain  went  up 
with  a  bound  and  there  stood,  not  a  Turkish  beauty 
from  the  harem  gate,  not  a  pasha  fresh  from  the 
Holy  War,  but  the  figure  of  Monsieur  le  Comte 
himself,  of  Madame  Judith's  husband,  his  red  hair 
bristling,  his  mouth  atwitch  in  anger,  and  such  a 
look  of  disgust  upon  his  far  from  handsome  face 
that  a  shout  of  laughter  went  up,  loud  enough  to 
bring  down  the  very  goddesses  from  the  ceiling. 

Oh,  it  was  all  up  now,  be  sure  of  it.  True,  the 
master  of  the  house  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman 
to  quarrel  with  his  guests  openly.  He  had  gone  to 
the  stage  to  find  out  what  was  happening  in  his 
house,  and  the  amateur  scene  shifters,  failing  to  rec- 
ognize him,  had  demanded  his  instant  expulsion. 
When  just  anger  overtook  him  and  his  wrath  found 
immediate  and  far  from  grave  expression,  a  wag 
raised  the  curtain  unexpectedly,  and  there  he  stood 
declared,  to  the  delight  of  his  uninvited  guests  and 
the  absolute  amazement  of  Madame.  Oh,  the  in- 
tolerable cruelty  of  it! — to  return  from  America 
without  so  much  as  a  cable.  Oh,  the  obtuseness  of 

321 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

a  man  who  fails  to  see  that  he  may  not  be  welcome  in 
his  own  house!  Madame  could  have  beaten  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  with  her  fan  at  that  moment.  Never 
was  such  humiliation — even  the  good  Bishop 
blushed  to  have  been  found  in. 

Be  it  said  that  the  entertainment  went  on,  but  not 
as  Madame  planned  it.  Every  one  seemed  to  un- 
derstand that  this  was  the  last  night  of  carnival, 
and  that  to-morrow  would  disperse  the  party.  Ju- 
dith herself  made  the  most  mournful  Turkish 
beauty  that  ever  trod  an  amateur  stage.  Gone  were 
all  her  high  spirits;  she  acted  mechanically  and  by 
rote — 'the  very  lover  in  the  dashing  fez  might  have 
been  glad  to  be  quit  of  her.  And  then  the  supper — 
oh,  doleful  repast !  You  could  hear  the  very  crumbs 
fall  on  the  cloth,  as  Monseigneur  himself  declared. 
Of  all  the  company  but  one  man  wore  an  unvarying 
smile  of  amusement,  and  he  a  stranger.  Ernest 
Hobby  had  never  enjoyed  himself  so  well.  That 
the  Count  should  return  unexpectedly!  The  little 
man  grinned  to  the  ears  when  that  word  "unex- 
pectedly" was  mentioned.  Did  he  know  more  than 
he  would  have  confessed  to  any  living  soul?  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  sent  a  secret  cable  to  New 
York?  Out  on  the  infamy — we  at  any  rate  know 
nothing  of  it,  and  refuse  to  believe  so  preposterous 
a  suggestion. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Hobby  derived  much  satis  fac- 
322 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

tion  from  the  circumstance — and  when  he  found 
himself  alone  with  Canning  and  they  fell  to  talk 
about  it,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  say  as  much.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  return  to  London  at  an 
early  date  and  could  have  happened  upon  no  more 
reasonable  excuse. 

"It  will  be  to-morrow,  now,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
as  he  closed  the  dressing-room  door  and  puffed 
away  at  the  remnant  of  a  cigarette — "we  can't  be 
indecent  enough  to  hang  on  here  any  longer — now 
can  we,  old  chap?" 

Canning  admitted  it.  He,  too,  was  vastly  amused. 
The  Count's  return  had  been  as  a  douche  upon  his 
follies.  He  could  laugh  with  Hobby,  and  he  did 
not  neglect  to  do  so. 

"To-morrow  if  you  like,  Hobby.  I've  nothing  to 
say  against  it.  Of  course  the  man  was  a  fool  to 
come  home  like  that.  If  he  will  put  his  nose  into 
the  hive  without  so  much  as  a  'by  your  leave,'  he 
must  expect  to  be  stung.  If  ever  I  marry,  I  shall 
certainly  send  telegrams.  To  do  less  is  to  argue 
that  a  woman  has  no  liberty.  She  may  have  plans 
as  private  as  our  own,  and  there  may  be  no  harm 
in  them  whatever.  Why  should  she  not  entertain 
in  our  absence  the  friends  we  do  not  like?  I  see 
no  reason." 

"No  more  do  I,  if  she  takes  good  care  that  they 
are  not  friends  we  may  have  reason  to  dislike.  I'm 

323 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

not  going  to  argue  about  it,  Canning.  The  Count's 
come  home  and  a  jolly  good  thing,  too.  What  I 
want  to  know  is,  when  do  we  start  for  London?" 

"For  London — why  London?  Are  you  forgetting 
our  plans?" 

"Every  one  of  them.  You're  going  to  forget 
them,  too,  when  you  read  those.  I'd  have  given 
them  to  you  before,  but  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  your 
evening.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  them,  old 
chap?" 

He  passed  two  cuttings  from  the  recent  news- 
papers, one  a  vast  and  florid  account  of  a  tragedy, 
common  to  all  the  great  dailies;  the  other  an  ex- 
cerpt from  a  Devon  newspaper.  Canning  read  the 
latter  first,  read  it  with  close  attention  and  silent 
testimony  to  its  import.  The  tragedy  appeared  to 
interest  him  less.  He  skimmed  the  dramatic  and 
flowing  narration  here  unfolded,  such  a  narration 
as  catastrophe  demands  in  these  days  of  newspaper 
competition — and  taking  up  the  puny  paragraph  he 
read  it  for  the  third  time. 

"This  is  very  terrible,  Hobby." 

"It's  very  pathetic,  old  chap." 

"In  a  way,  yes.  I  knew  something  of  the  sac- 
charin— young  Benson  put  me  on  the  track.  But 
the  other  story  matters.  They  say  the  old  man  is 
probably  drowned  at  sea." 

"Yes,  I  took  it  that  way." 

324 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"Then  Jesse  Fearney  will  be  quite  alone  ?" 

"She  will  be  so,  until  we  arrive.  If  we  start  very 
early  in  the  morning  and  catch  the  mail  at  Tours, 
we  shall  be  in  Paris  to-morrow  night  and  in  London 
on  the  following  morning." 

"There  is  a  shorter  way  that  that,  Hobby." 

Hobby  raised  his  eyebrows.     "A  shorter  way?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  charter  a  fast  launch  at  Cherbourg 
and  run  round  by  sea.  Did  you  think  of  that?" 

"Indeed,  no — I  was  not  sure — well,  that  you 
would  go  at  all." 

"I  am  just  the  man  to  stay  away  at  such  a  time. 
Thanks  for  your  warm  opinion  of  my  chivalry." 

Hobby  was  much  upset. 

"Oh,  no,  you  misunderstand  me,  Canning — but  I 
thought  perhaps — well,  that  you  would  rather  I 
went." 

"We  will  go  together,  Hobby — as  fast  as  train 
and  ship  can  carry  us.  God  grant  that  we  shall  not 
be  too  late." 

He  knew  not  why  he  added  that  earnest  prayer. 
Perhaps  a  voice  of  fatality  whispered  the  truth — • 
that  delay  had  undone  him  and  that  this  golden 
opportunity  of  service  and  of  love  had  melted  away 
in  the  mocking  sunshine  which  had  lured  him  to  the 
chateau.  Nemesis,  indeed,  if  that  were  so.  Can- 
ning remembered  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  Neme- 
sis, and  the  lesson  had  been  well  learned. 

325 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

He  did  not.  sleep  that  night.  A  motor  car  carried 
him  from  the  chateau  at  seven  o'clock  upon  the 
following  morning,  and  he  went  without  any  fare- 
well to  Madame  or  expressions  either  of  apology  or 
regret.  The  tragi-comedy  was  played  to  its  end 
— time,  indeed,  to  put  the  puppets  in  the  box. 


326 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXX 

THE     SHIP     OF     FATE 

THE  sergeant  of  police  remained  as  a  matter  of 
form  upon  Bell  Island,  but,  when  a  week  had  passed, 
no  one  believed  that  the  old  man  was  alive  or  that 
the  law  would  ever  put  its  hands  upon  him.  Why 
should  they?  Had  not  the  police  sent  their  tele- 
grams to  all  the  ports  where  such  a  fugitive  might 
seek  refuge  ?  Had  not  the  hither  and  the  further  seas 
been  scoured  by  willing  seamen,  very  susceptible  to 
the  emotions  of  pity  and  having,  as  they  would  tell 
you  sadly,  "childer  of  their  own"  ? 

These  knew  very  well  what  had  happened  to 
Japhon  of  the  "Pharos."  "He  were  ower-venture- 
some,"  they  would  tell  you;  "trouble  had  driven 
him  clean  daft." 

How,  otherwise,  could  such  a  wise  sailor  have  put 
forth  upon  such  a  foolish  voyage?  "There  warn't 
no  half-decked  lugger  between  Avonmouth  and  the 
Lizard  which  could  have  rode  out  such  a  night." 
Japhon  was  dead  for  a  certainty — though  strange, 
to  be  sure,  that  none  of  them  had  discovered  any 
traces  of  his  boat,  not  so  much  as  a  single  spar  in 
all  that  wide  survey. 

327 


THB  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Now,  this  would  be  the  talk  down  by  the  mole 
when  the  October  nights  fell  soft  and  stilly  and 
the  inner  channel  was  aglow  with  the  lanterns  of 
the  fleet.  It  was  the  season  of  the  herring,  too, 
when  countless  "strangers"  sailed  down  from  the 
North,  and  even  Bell  Island  could  display  activities 
which  savored  of  the  strenuous  life. 

Old  in  their  love  of  gossip,  the  islanders  delighted 
in  their  long  recitals — how  that  Japhon  Fearney 
had  been  King's  man  and  parson,  farmer  and  mer- 
chant these  many  years;  how  shrewd  he  must  have 
been  to  run  that  sugary  stuff,  saccharin,  when  they 
themselves  were  risking  their  savings  for  plugs  of 
tobacco  and  kegs  of  brandy;  what  a  thing  it  would 
have  been  if  he  had  gone  to  'sizes — the  whole  story 
in  brief,  set  out  with  wonderful  ornament  and  not 
to  be  related  without  many  glasses.  So  highly  col- 
ored were  the  pictures  that  many  a  stranger  went 
up  the  cliff  part  at  their  instigation,  gazing  at  the 
shuttered  windows  of  the  farm  and  asking,  "Is  that 
the  lass?"  if  Jesse  appeared.  None  thought  of  the 
Castle  in  those  days — the  rumor  of  the  crime  was 
bruited  too  loudly  abroad  that  the  feebler  voice  of 
mere  curiosity  should  obtain  a  hearing. 

To  Jesse,  mercifully,  these  stories  never  came. 
She  had  shut  herself  up  in  the  farmhouse — at  least, 
the  people  would  tell  you  so — and  whether  she 
shared  their  gloomy  beliefs  or  dared  more  coura- 

328 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

geously  to  hope,  they  could  but  surmise.  Once  or 
twice,  it  is  true,  Frank  Benson  had  waylaid  her  go- 
ing up  to  the  headland  at  a  late  hour  and  had 
guessed  the  errand  that  took  her  there. 

"You  are  looking  for  your  bully  in  blue  buttons," 
he  said  chivalrously ;  "it  was  the  other  chap  a  month 
ago."  To  which  she  disdained  an  answer — and 
fearful  of  the  consequences  if  he  molested  her,  he 
let  her  go  in  peace. 

Yes,  she  was  looking  for  Philip  Blake  and  look- 
ing ardently.  A  woman's  instinct  for  friendship  is 
sure,  and  Jesse  knew  perfectly  well  that  this  young 
sailor  would  befriend  her.  Dazed  by  her  father's 
continued  absence,  but  believing  against  her  reason 
that  his  skill  had  saved  him  from  the  sea,  she  re- 
fused to  harp  upon  the  possibilities  of  another  story, 
and  turned  with  beating  heart  to  this  hope  for  the 
man  she  loved  and  the  day  of  its  consummation. 

Had  not  Philip  promised  her  that  he  would  re- 
turn to  Bell  Island  almost  immediately?  How  long 
the  hours  seemed !  What  intolerable  vigils  she  kept 
upon  the  cliff-head,  spying  out  the  fretting  sea  and 
complaining  upon  the  void  horizon!  Why  did  not 
Philip  write  to  her?  she  could  ask.  Had  his  prom- 
ise been  a  myth,  then?  Oh,  never  would  she  believe 
that! 

Her  faith  endured  during  the  sunny  days  of  Oc- 
tober. No  Crusoe  upon  a  desolate  isle  could  have 

329 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

waited  and  watched  for  the  coming  of  a  ship  with  a 
larger  hope  or  a  surer  confidence.  Philip  Blake 
would  return,  and  in  his  return  she  would  find  sal- 
vation. Thus  argued  her  woman's  logic;  thus 
courage  carried  her  to  the  headland  each  day  at 
dawn,  and  found  her  there  again  when  the  harbor 
lights  first  flashed  out  over  the  hither  sea  and  the 
sun  was  sinking  into  the  mighty  ocean  void.  Philip 
would  come  and  tell  her,  not  only  of  her  father's 
safety,  but  of  the  welfare  of  the  man  she  loved.  So 
much  she  believed  ardently.  Alas,  that  the  fact  re- 
warded her  so  ill! 

Now,  it  would  have  been  upon  the  eighth  day, 
shortly  after  five  o'clock  of  the  morning,  that  the 
Marathon  returned  to  Bell  Island.  A  night  of  pre- 
mature winter  gave  place  to  a  dawn  of  mists,  cul- 
minating anon  in  a  veritable  sea  fog,  which  swept 
about  the  island  in  monster  clouds  of  drenching 
mist  and  hid  the  very  shape  of  the  headlands  from 
those  afloat.  Jesse,  a  light  sleeper  always,  was  one 
of  the  first  to  hear  the  blast  of  the  siren  which 
warned  the  seamen  of  this  visitation — and  but  half 
comprehending  its  meaning  and  continually  anx- 
ious concerning  all  that  happened  at  sea,  she  rose  at 
once  and  went  down  toward  the  Pharos.  Such  a 
journey  was  hazardous  enough  even  to  one  who 
knew  the  island  as  she  knew  it — but  hope  and  cour- 
age carried  her  bravely,  and  although  the  mists 

330 


THB  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

drenched  her  and  the  path  was  often  hidden  from 
her  sight,  she  made  the  village  street  at  last,  and 
happed  upon  old  Tom  Weede  at  the  door  of  the 
very  first  house  whose  lights  she  could  distin- 
guish. 

This  worthy  was  full  of  the  news,  be  sure  of  it. 
Luck  alone  had  saved  him  from  being  at  sea  with 
the  others  of  the  fleet — but  he  knew  the  meaning  of 
the  siren's  blasts  and  did  not  hesitate  to  say  so. 

"There  be  a  ship  on  the  Spanish  Rock — that's 
what  there  be,"  he  cried,  forgetting  that  she  was  a 
woman  and  hailing  her  with  all  a  seaman's  fa- 
miliarity, "three  blasts  and  two — why,  the  childer 
knows  the  meanin'  o'  that.  Now,  what  in  hell  are 
we  to  do,  with  not  enough  hands  to  man  a  barrel, 
and  half  the  boys  beyond  the  Lizard?  Ay,  that  be  a 
masterpiece,  that  be.  I'm  d — d  if  ever  I  heard 
anything  like  it  since  the  Wolfhound  were  wrecked 
on  the  Galland  Rock.  A  ship  ashore  and  me  the 
only  man  that's  worth  a  threepenny — ay,  there's 
summat  to  talk  about." 

He  stumped  up  and  down  before  his  cottage 
door,  smoking  his  pipe  furiously  and  crying  "Hark!" 
whenever  the  siren's  blast  came  shrieking  over  the 
hills.  Jesse,  for  her  part,  could  but  stare  at  him 
with  eyes  wide  open,  while  such  a  sense  of  help- 
lessness and  despair  overtook  her  as  she  had  never 
known  in  all  her  life.  A  ship  ashore  on  the  Span- 

331 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

ish  Rock.  What  ship  could  that  be  if  not  the 
Marathon!1  Oh,  this  were  fate  indeed! 

"A  ship  ashore  on  the  Spanish  Rock,"  she  cried 
amazed;  "then  what  ship  is  it — not  the  Marathon, 
Mr.  Weede;  you  wouldn't  tell  me  it  is  the  Mara- 
thon?" He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  with  one 
hand  and  laid  the  other  gently  upon  her  arm. 

"Listen  here,"  he  said;  "she  were  to  return  and 
pick  up  her  moorin's  sometime  atween  midnight 
and  daybreak.  Well,  here  she  be  sure  enough. 
And  what  did  I  say  to  'em  not  ten  days  gone?  'You 
may  come  your  blarsted  navigashun  horficers  over 
me,'  says  I,  'but  the  man  as  can  pick  up  a  moorin* 
by  Bell  Island  in  a  d — d  sea  fog  is  fit  ter  be  wrote 
of  in  the  books  and  have  the  statute  set  up.'  Well, 
here  he  be,  miss,  to  be  sure — and  that's  the  guns 
he's  a-firin'  of  now.  As  if  I  couldn't  hear  him  loud 
enough  without  them  there.  Does  he  think  I  can 
pull  the  boat  single-handed?  Blarst  me,  if  that 
wouldn't  be  a  miracle  same  as  the  prophets." 

He  bade  her  listen  again,  and  the  thunder  of  the 
great  guns  boomed  loud  and  weirdly  in  the  seething 
fog.  Now,  also,  some  of  the  women  came  running- 
from  the  cottages  and  began  to  ask  what  the  matter 
might  be.  Lads  grouped  themselves  about  Tom 
Weede  and  heard  him  with  awe.  One  of  the  girls 
with  a  woman's  instinct  offered  Jesse  a  cup  of  tea 
and  begged  her  to  come  into  the  cottage  a  little  while. 

332 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

"Well,  miss,"  she  said,  "wishing  won't  help  them 
poor  souls,  to  be  sure.  Oh,  this  is  a  dreadful  day 
and  none  of  us  will  forget  it  I  must  say — but  we 
poor  women  have  enough  of  our  own  to  put  up 
with  without  other  people's.  Do  you  come  in  and 
rest  yourself  a  little  while.  Tis  dreadful  cold  and 
fit  to  perish  a  body.  If  there's  anything  to  be  done 
my  Will  will  do  it  when  he  comes  ashore — but  I 
don't  look  for  him  until  the  fog's  lifted,  and  that's 
sure  and  certain.  Come  in,  miss,  and  we'll  make  a 
cup  of  tea." 

Jesse  went  with  her  as  one  in  a  dream.  The  girl 
was  but  eighteen  and  had  been  married  some  two 
years.  Her  Will  Benning  was  one  of  the  best  sea- 
men on  the  island — ah,  he  would  have  helped  the 
poor  folk  if  he  had  been  ashore — but  that  Tom 
AVeede,  why,  a  babe  in  arms  would  be  of  more  use. 
"You  see,  miss,"  she  said,  "the  wind's  dropped  and 
they  won't  be  in  danger  yet  a  while.  We'll  have 
some  of  the  boats  in  just  now  and  there'll  be  plenty 
willing  to  go.  Do  you  rest  till  that  happens — I'm 
sure  you're  sorry  enough,  as  we  all  must  be  at  such 
a  time.  That's  what  we  poor  women  were  made 
for,  I  do  believe — to  be  sorry  for  others  and  never 
to  think  about  ourselves  at  all.  We'd  help  gladly 
enough  if  we  could,  but  wishing  isn't  doing,  as  all 
the  world  knows." 

Jesse  sipped  her  tea,  grateful  for  its  warmth. 

333 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  had  answered  the  girl  but  in  monosyllables 
hitherto,  and  now  she  sat  as  one  spellbound,  to  listen 
to  the  muted  thunder  of  the  distant  guns  and  to 
imagine  that  scene  which  the  fog  veiled  so  merci- 
fully. A  ship  on  the  Spanish  Rock — the  ship  of 
fate  she  had  waited  for  so  ardently  in  dire  peril  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  giant  headland.  What  child 
would  not  understand  the  meaning  of  those  words? 
And  she,  Jesse,  had  been  thinking  but  of  herself 
during  these  moments  most  precious ;  her  own  hopes 
had  dictated  all  her  questions,  all  her  venturings, 
while  brave  men  were  fighting  for  their  lives  and 
longing  eyes  were  searching  that  shore  from  which 
help  should  come.  Oh,  this  were  self-condemnation 
indeed — and  she  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  would 
have  risked  his  life  a  hundred  times  to  drag  one 
fellow  creature  from  the  sea. 

"Mrs.  Bennings,"  she  said  at  last,  setting  the  cup 
upon  the  clean  white  table  and  rising  purposely,  "if 
there  are  not  men  at  home  to  go  out  with  the  life- 
boat, we,  the  women,  must  go." 

"Oh,  miss,  what  a  thing  to  say !" 

"It  is  what  we  would  all  say  if  we  thought  of  it. 
Have  they  not  wives  and  children  at  home  waiting 
for  them?  Would  you  not  wish  them  to  go  if  your 
husband  were  on  board  the  Marathon?  Oh,  answer 
me  yes — say  that  you  will  help  me.  Have  we  not 
been  the  wives  and  sisters  and  the  children  of  such 

334 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

as  these  all  our  lives  ?  What  forbids  us  to  go  ?  Say 
that  you  are  ready — say  that  you  will  help  them  as 
you  would  wish  others  to  help  your  husband  when 
his  day  comes." 

The  girl  stared  in  blank  amazement.  What,  that 
women  should  put  forth  in  the  great  lifeboat  which 
they  had  always  regarded  fearfully  and  with  a 
woman's  dread!  She  was  terrified  by  the  sugges- 
tion. Her  words  stuck  in  her  throat — she  licked  her 
lips  as  one  who  is  trying  to  speak,  but  whose  tongue 
refuses  its  office. 

"Do  you  really  mean,  miss >"  she  stammered 

at  last 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  cried  Jesse,  her  eyes  bright 
with  the  daring  of  it,  her  brain  aflame;  "we  must 
go  to  their  help — now,  immediately.  The  women 
must  go.  Shall  we  be  called  cowards  to  all  time? 
You  say  the  sea  is  calm,  there  is  no  wind.  Oh, 
what  forbids  us,  what  forbids  us  to  do  God's  work 
when  there  are  no  men  to  do  it  ?" 

This  and  much  more  was  her  argument.  She 
spoke  proudly,  and  other  women  coming  to  the  cot- 
tage when  they  knew  she  was  there,  she  turned  to 
them  with  arguments  no  less  eloquent.  The  women 
of  Bell  Island  must  go.  They  must  do  this  thing. 
There  were  twenty  willing  before  the  clock  struck 
again — thirty  in  the  great  lifeboat  when  old  Tom 
Weede  and  such  of  the  lads  as  had  the  strength — 

335 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

to  say  nothing  of  the  police  sergeant — let  it  go 
down  the  slip  and  it  cut  its  rippling  wake  upon  the 
glasslike  surface  of  the  still  sea. 

Oh,  they  were  a  brave  company,  a  wonderful 
company,  and  the  world  has  honored  them !  Picture 
that  scene  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  the  rolling, 
shifting  wraith  of  the  fog  alternately  hiding  and 
disclosing  their  set  but  womanly  faces — wives,  sis- 
ters, daughters  of  those  who  went  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships;  women  who  an  hour  gone  were  lighting 
the  fires  and  boiling  the  kettles  against  their  hus- 
bands' home-coming.  And  now  they  sat,  willing 
slaves  of  this  great  crimson  galley,  pulling  it  awk- 
wardly but  with  no  mean  strength  across  the  har- 
bor bar,  trying  to  obey  the  pompous  voice  of  old 
Tom  Weede  at  the  tiller  as  he  cried,  "Steady,  my 
girls!"  or  "Bravely  done!"  or  "Now  she  takes  it!" 
Anon  they  passed  the  little  lighthouse  at  the  head  of 
the  mole  and  were  shrouded  instantly  in  the  en- 
veloping mists.  The  land,  the  houses,  the  very 
stones  of  the  harbor  were  hidden  from  their  sight. 
Voices  came  to  them  as  sounds  muffled  afar.  They 
were  afraid  to  speak — the  very  splash  of  the  oars 
echoed  weirdly  on  the  still  air. 

A  strange  world  this — a  world  of  uncanny  shapes, 

of  water  glistening  beneath  the  fog,  of  that  sense  of 

peril  which  the  sea  mist  rarely   fails  to  inspire. 

Some  of  these  brave  women  were  crying  now.    Ah, 

336 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

if  they  should  never  see  their  homes  again.  To 
these  Jesse  spoke  bravely  as  she  plied  the  stoutest 
oar — or,  bidding  them  go  easy,  listened  to  Tom 
Weede  and  waited  for  him  while  he  took  his  bear- 
ings. They  were  about  to  restore  husbands  and 
fathers  to  other  women's  houses.  Should  they  count 
the  cost?  The  fog  would  be  gone  anon  and  their 
own  husbands  there  to  help  them.  So  they  pressed 
on,  the  great  guns  calling  them.  Ah,  those  guns 
whose  booming  echoed  in  many  an  ear  that  never 
again  would  be  conscious  of  the  great  world  or  its 
voices — the  guns  which  seemed  to  say  "doom," 
"doom."  An  hour  ago  this  proud  ship  had  been 
steaming  up  the  Bristol  Channel  upon  the  begin- 
nings of  that  voyage  which  should  lead  to  home 
and  holiday.  The  year's  work  was  done.  Many 
of  its  seamen  were  to  be  paid  off  presently.  And  it 
steamed  majestically  as  to  a  joyous  home-coming; 
every  man  full  of  his  own  hopes — some  speaking 
openly  of  the  girls  who  waited  for  them ;  some  with 
a  tender  word  for  little  children. 

Look  up  high  to  the  bridge  and  you  may  see  a 
young  officer  strutting  there,  cocksure  of  his  own 
superiority  and  of  the  inferiority  of  all  others — the 
admiral  of  the  fleet  not  excepted.  The  commander 
himself  is  in  his  cabin  snatching  a  brief  rest  richly 
deserved.  There  is  content,  certainty,  conviction — 
for  what  cares  a  King's  ship  for  a  little  fog  and  by 

337 


FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

what  miraculous  mishap  is  she  to  be  destroyed? 
So  these  good  fellows  would  have  argued,  had  ar- 
gument been  their  amusement — and  so  among  them 
stalked  Master  Humility,  looking  for  a  victory. 
They  were  nineteen  miles  from  Bell  Island,  said 
the  reckoning — ah,  the  mischief  of  it,  since  the 
Spanish  Reef  is  not  a  mile  distant  and  they  are 
heading  straight  for  it. 

And  now  behold  the  drama  of  awakening.  There 
is  a  harsh  sound  heard  as  of  rasping  of  iron  with 
a  mighty  file — the  whole  ship  trembles  as  though 
with  fear;  plunges  forward  dizzily;  shakes  herself 
as  a  hound  returning  to  a  shore  and  settles  down 
heavily  upon  the  bosom  of  the  rock.  The  prevail- 
ing sound  is  one  of  scalding  steam  and  hissing 
valves — you  can  hear  the  water  pouring  heavily 
through  the  breach,  the  rasping  of  the  steel  upon 
the  jagged  rocks ;  the  crashing  of  freed  booms  and 
of  heavy  iron  torn  from  the  lashings.  But  for  a 
brief  instant  no  human  voice.  The  commander 
and  the  navigating  officer  stagger  together  from 
their  cabins;  the  boy  upon  the  bridge  is  cocksure 
no  longer,  but  pale,  motionless,  awaits  his  orders. 

Good  God!  what  happening  is  this?  They  are 
nineteen  miles  from  Bell  Island — they  must  be,  and 
the  sea  has  smitten  them  miraculously.  So  their 
thoughts  run — but  the  navigating  officer  knows  bet- 
ter. As  in  a  flash  it  comes  to  him  that  there  has 

338 


THE,   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

been  an  error.  Some  one  has  blundered — has  been 
befooled  by  the  fog — the  ship  has  struck.  Ruin 
stares  him  in  the  face,  but  he  looks  upon  it  boldly. 
Duty  is  here  to  be  done — a  fine  duty  despite  the 
knowledge  that  the  end  of  many  careers  has  come. 

And  so  the  ringing  command  is  heard  at  last 
above  the  muttering  of  ship  and  ocean.  Bulkhead 
doors  are  closed ;  collision  mats  prepared.  A  signal 
gun  summons  help  from  the  shore ;  seamen  and  sol- 
diers are  mustered  on  deck;  the  boats  are  made 
ready.  None  work  more  methodically  or  with  finer 
will  than  the  engineers;  but  what  is  their  skill 
against  this  enemy  of  the  passionless  rock,  ripping, 
tearing,  rending?  There  are  minutes  of  sagging 
life  before  a  great  ship  that  has  cost  the  nation 
nearly  a  million  of  money — minutes  yet  when  she 
may  lift  a  proud  head  and  say  "I  am."  Then  comes 
tragic  submission.  She  lists  heavily  to  port,  the 
steel  plates  buckle  and  give  way ;  the  decks  are  rent, 
monster  guns  crash  from  their  turrets  and  go  head- 
long to  the  rocks  below;  steam  foams  above  the 
reef  as  the  spume  of  a  volcano;  live  coals  are  vom- 
ited from  the  half -submerged  funnel  and  fall  hiss- 
ing into  the  whirlpool  of  the  waters.  But  all  this 
with  a  stately  deliberation  which  no  master  of  tragic 
pageantry  could  surpass — deliberate,  piecemeal,  in- 
evitable, terrifying. 

What  meanwhile  of  the  men  drawn  up  there  upon 

339 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

the  streaming  decks?  What  of  their  thoughts  as 
the  great  ship  lists  and  the  water,  rising  as  a  thin 
green  line  above  the  port  bulwarks,  descends  at  last 
in  a  monstrous  wave,  engulfing  and  irresistible? 
Gone  is  all  order  now.  The  wild  cry,  the  despair- 
ing shriek  echo  across  the  waste.  Some  die  in  grim 
silence,  fighting  stubbornly  with  death;  others  sur- 
render to  their  doom  as  children  to  sleep — a  few, 
and  these  the  swimmers,  strike  out  to  the  right,  to 
the  left,  losing  all  sense  of  locality  in  the  fog  and 
believing  that  help  must  be  at  hand.  These  can  hear 
the  siren's  blast  long  after  the  booming  of  the  guns 
is  stilled.  They  make  for  it  blindly,  amid  the  chaos 
of  wreckage  and  of  human  bodies.  There  is  a 
haven  at  hand,  but  no  ship  has  put  out  to  their  res- 
cue. Oh,  the  cruelty  of  it,  the  torture  of  this  mad 
hope,  the  frenzied  prayer  to  God,  the  wild  uplifting 
of  eyes  to  that  heaven  which  is  hidden  from  their 
sight!  And  what  courage  goes  with  them  to  the 
end!  Is  there  a  spar  here,  a  very  raft  of  fortune, 
Jack  will  call  his  brother  to  it.  Brave  exhortations 
help  the  laggards.  There  are  jesters  still  to  be 
heard,  ay,  best  of  friends  and  finest  of  men,  who 
declare  the  girls  will  never  know  them  when  they 
get  ashore  and  express  the  hope  that  breakfast  will 
be  ready.  Such  as  these  the  still  sea  mocks. 
"Hush!"  it  seems  to  say,  "here  is  the  ocean  of  death; 
do  not  desecrate  these  holy  waters." 

340 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXXI 

JESSE   GOES  TO   LONDON 

THE  sea  fog  is  at  all  times  a  fine  impresario, 
contriving  its  effects  of  drama  with  magic  swift- 
ness; but  never  more  bewitchingly  than  when  the 
sun  is  its  ally,  and  a  morning  of  golden  autumn  lies 
hid  behind  the  silver  curtain. 

Those  who  have  told  of  the  wreck  of  the  Mara- 
thon make  much  of  the  natural  contrasts  which  that 
scene  of  tragedy  presented.  They  tell  with  reason 
of  a  grim  irony  which  sent  a  great  ship  to  her 
doom  upon  a  fog-bound  coast,  when,  had  she  de- 
layed but  an  hour,  she  would  have  picked  up  her 
moorings  amid  such  a  scene  of  radiant  sunshine  as 
can  be  surpassed  for  picturesqueness  nowhere  in 
the  world.  For  thus,  in  truth,  it  befell  at  Bell  Is- 
land upon  that  October  morning.  The  dawn 
brought  the  drenching,  penetrating  fog — but  at 
eight  o'clock  the  heaven  was  sunny  and  the  sky  of 
unclouded  blue;  the  waters  were  dancing  with  life; 
the  houses  shone  gloriously  white  upon  the  cliffs; 
the  pastures  added  a  lustre  of  green  and  gold  to  the 
spreading  landscape. 

Now,   fogs  disperse  in  many  ways.     Some  are 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

blown  asunder  by  winds  into  little  companies  of  the 
mists ;  others  march  off  in  cloudy  battalions — others 
again,  the  fogs  of  autumn,  are  drawn  up  by  the 
heat  as  it  were  to  the  very  bowels  of  the  heavens, 
kaving  but  wisps  upon  the  water  and  these  soon  to 
be  absorbed  as  the  sun  gains  power  and  the  day 
grows  older.  Such  was  the  fog  in  which  the  Mara- 
thon was  wrecked. 

Let  us  stand  upon  the  southern  headland,  which 
is  Bell  Island's  glory,  and  watch  this  splendid 
drama  as  the  seascape  unfolds  it  for  us.  We  are 
enshrouded  by  a  blinding  mist ;  can  scarcely  see  our 
hands  before  our  faces;  are  utterly  ignorant  of  all 
that  is  happening  around,  above,  below  us.  But 
now,  behold;  this  silent  impresario  is  busy!  There 
is  a  faint  breath  of  wind.  The  mists  are  cleaved 
— we  begin  to  see  a  haze  of  light;  the  path  takes 
shape;  the  cliffs  are  outlined  to  our  view;  we  dis- 
tinguish the  deserted  Castle;  the  great  lighthouse 
below  it — and  then,  as  in  a  twinkling,  the  whole  sea 
is  declared — the  glassy  water;  the  fleet  of  fishing 
boats  returning — and  down  yonder  the  familiar 
harbor;  the  winding  village  street.  And  we  say 
that  the  day  will  be  a  day  of  autumn  in  all  her 
beauty ;  we  know  that  the  night  has  passed  indeed. 

This  would  be  upon  a  common  occasion;  but  the 
dawn  of  drama  would  change  our  picture  beyond 
all  knowledge.  Then,  as  heretofore,  the  sea  is  de- 

342 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

clared  suddenly,  the  shores  revealed ;  the  lighthouse 
made  known  to  us.  But  hardly  is  the  fog  lifted 
before  the  true  story  of  the  night  is  ours.  What 
movement,  what  commotion  upon  the  hither  wa- 
ters! And  how  unfamiliar  that  scene  about  the 
Spanish  Rock,  the  great  gray  ship  standing  up 
above  the  ebbing  tide;  the  wreckage  all  about  it; 
the  fishing  boats  hurrying  to  the  place;  the  sea  it- 
self alive  with  the  attendant  satellites.  Now,  in- 
deed, is  the  story  known  even  upon  the  mainland. 
Tugs,  as  vultures  of  the  deep,  appear  upon  a  far 
horizon.  Fishing  boats  are  propelled  by  giant 
sweeps  upon  a  work  of  mercy.  From  shore  to 
shore  the  message  is  flashed  until  the  story  of  dis- 
aster is  known  at  Falmouth,  at  Plymouth,  even  in 
Whitehall.  Not  a  man,  a  woman  or  a  child  upon 
Bell  Island  who  is  not  there  at  the  cliffhead,  watch- 
ing the  drama  in  silent  stupefaction.  This  is  a 
story  for  the  children's  children;  who  will  miss  a 
line  of  it? 

Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  of  all  the  details  of 
that  fateful  event  none  has  remained  in  the  memory 
of  the  people  so  surely  as  the  picture  of  the  life- 
boat, and  of  the  brave  women  who  rowed  it  to  the 
wreck  at  Jesse  Fearney's  bidding.  Sitting  out 
blindly  in  the  fog,  uncertain  at  the  beginning  even 
of  the  nature  of  the  disaster,  the  Mary  Ann  went 
among  the  drowning  seamen  as  a  ship  of  salvation 

343 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

sent  almost  miraculously  upon  this  crowning  work 
of  mercy.  Many  a  despairing  wretch  about  to  sur- 
render to  cold  and  the  terror  of  the  sea  clutched  the 
strong  hand  thrust  out  to  him  from  this  all  unex- 
pected apparition  of  the  waters;  many  a  woman 
blessed  Jesse  Fearney's  name  that  night  and  mut- 
tered it  in  her  prayers.  And  if  the  work  were  but 
pitiful  when  the  reckoning  were  made,  let  this  at 
least  be  said  that  no  crew  of  men  would  have  done 
better,  and  that  but  for  one  woman's  courage  and 
good  faith,  no  less  than  forty  brave  seamen  would 
have  made  their  last  voyage  upon  any  ship. 

It  had  been  seven  o'clock  of  the  morning  when 
the  lifeboat  put  out  upon  its  first  voyage;  it  was 
after  midday  when  it  returned  from  its  last.  Bell 
Island  then  witnessed  such  a  scene  of  life  and  ex- 
citement as  never  had  been  known  in  all  its  story. 
Every  house  boasted  its  drenched  guests — there 
were  seamen  going  to  and  fro  in  small  boats  con- 
stantly— tugs  had  come  over  from  the  mainland 
and  were  cruising  in  the  deep  waters  beyond  the 
mole;  the  fishing  fleet  had  returned  and  the  little 
harbor  became  a  forest  of  masts.  Not  prone  to 
acclaim  heroism,  none  the  less  the  good  fellows 
about  the  harbor  could  bestir  themselves  at  the  life- 
boat's return,  and  give  it  a  rousing  cheer  you  might 
almost  have  heard  across  the  Channel.  Ay,  they 
were  glad  that  their  women  should  prove  stout 

344 


THE   FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 

hearts — but  they  would  not  make  overmuch  of 
them,  and  the  good  souls  tramped  back  to  their 
homes  as  unconcerned  and  unaware  of  their  own 
fame  as  any  housewife  in  the  kingdom.  Let  the 
newspapers  cackle  of  this  affair  to-morrow.  What 
mattered  it  to  them,  and  what  did  newspapers  know 
of  the  sea  and  its  sacrifices? 

Jesse  Fearney,  be  it  said,  was  one  of  the  first 
ashore,  and  Jo,  the  nigger,  her  father's  boatman,  one 
of  the  first  who  greeted  her  there.  Guessing  noth- 
ing of  the  curiosity  which  inspired,  in  some  measure, 
this  daring  venture,  he  told  her  in  a  word  that  of 
which  the  island  had  been  talking  this  hour  or  more. 

Philip  Blake  was  dead.  His  body  had  been  car- 
ried to  the  chapel;  it  was  one  of  the  first  to  be 
brought  on  shore.  Every  one  was  sorry  for  "Massa 
Blake,"  and  he  was  much  liked.  Jesse  heard  him 
with  inclined  head  and  averted  eyes.  She  knew  that 
it  could  not  be  otherwise ;  she  had  been  sure  of  this 
when  her  keen  glance  searched  the  fretting  waters 
about  the  wreck  and  no  trace  of  Philip  had  been 
discovered.  He  was  dead!  He  would  never  be- 
friend her  more.  This  must  be  the  end  of  all  that 
new  and  sudden  hope.  He  was  dead — this  friend 
who  had  wished  so  well  to  her. 

She  returned  to  the  farm;  avoiding  converse  with 
all,  interesting  herself  no  more  in  that  work  of 
mercy  which  so  many  willing  hands  were  ready  to 

345 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

do.  To  Hannah,  the  maid,  she  said  nothing  of  the 
events  of  the  morning,  save  to  tell  her  that  the 
Marathon  was  wrecked  upon  the  Spanish  Rock 
and  that  she  feared  many  had  perished.  Possessing 
a  nature  truly  womanly  and  wholly  unsympathetic, 
she  wondered  at  this  euthanasia  of  pity  which  had 
overtaken  her — at  the  quiet  survey  she  could  make 
both  of  her  own  possession  and  of  others.  All  the 
horror  and  the  dread  of  the  things  happening  down 
there  upon  the  shore  but  drove  her  more  surely  to 
the  seclusion  of  the  farm  and  the  refuge  of  her 
thoughts.  She  must  find  her  father,  she  said;  she 
must  find  John  Canning.  A  great  yearning  to  go  to 
the  man  she  loved,  to  say  "Help  me,"  sustained  her 
and  animated  all  her  actions.  Ah,  if  she  could  be- 
gin such  a  journey  to-day,  set  out  that  very  mo- 
ment. Pride  was  done  with  now.  The  woman  in 
her  said,  "You  have  the  right  to  go  to  him ;  he  will 
hear  you."  And  this  instinct  of  her  womanhood 
she  was  all  willing  to  obey,  could  they  but  point  the 
road  to  her. 

Women  are  clever  in  sorrow  and  often  resource- 
ful. Jesse  could  wonder  now  why  she  had  accepted 
all  the  events  of  the  past  few  days  so  unquestion- 
ingly;  why  her  father's  absence  had  not  awakened 
her  to  action ;  why  she  had  relied  upon  poor  Philip 
Blake  to  do  for  her  that  which  her  own  wit  must 
contrive.  Was  she  not  the  mistress  of  the  island 

346 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

in  so  far  as  her  father  had  been  the  master  of  it? 
Suddenly  conscious  of  the  meaning  of  the  term,  she 
locked  herself  in  old  Japhon's  poor  sanctum  and 
began  methodically  to  examine  his  papers.  No 
sense  of  sanctity  restrained  her;  no  hesitation  as  to 
the  nature  and  scope  of  her  duty;  but  quietly,  per- 
sistently she  went  through  the  dusty  pile  of  letters; 
examined  the  books  and  the  ill-written  letters, 
turned  out  the  drawers ;  laid  bare  the  cupboards.  It 
was  five  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  when  she  had  fin- 
ished the  task,  and  Hannah  was  calling  her  to  tea. 
Never  had  the  hours  of  a  mean  employment  passed 
so  swiftly. 

They  will  tell  you  on  Bell  Island  how  that  Jesse 
left  them  that  night  to  go  to  London;  with  what 
astonishment  the  news  was  heard  even  by  those  to 
whom  the  day  had  been  memorable  beyond  all  ex- 
perience. She  had  gone  at  eight  o'clock,  the  men 
said,  and  would  catch  the  night  mail.  Jo,  the  nig- 
ger, and  Isaacson,  the  Swede,  sailed  the  boat  which 
had  carried  her  father  so  often  upon  his  secret  mis- 
sions. Her  purpose,  however,  was  known  to  none. 
Some  thought  she  had  gone  to  tell  Mr.  Blake  of 
his  son's  death — others  hinted  that  she  knew  where 
Japhon  was  hiding  and  would  seek  him  out  in  this 
hour  of  the  disaster.  But  all  quickly  forgot  the 
circumstance — for  why  should  they  remember  it 
upon  such  a  night? 

347 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

Was  not  the  island  a  wild  scene  enough  that  they 
should  think  of  others?  Ay,  the  strange  changes, 
the  comings  and  goings  of  poor  bereaved  people — 
the  black  ships  anchored  off  the  reef;  the  flares 
burning  brightly  to  make  the  night  as  day.  Here 
was  something  of  which  England  would  speak  in 
whispers  to-morrow — this  tale  written  upon  the  wa- 
ters of  the  glassy  sea ;  this  holocaust  so  overwhelm- 
ing and  unaccountable.  Ay,  a  tale  to  be  winged 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land — not 
any  pitiful  account  of  women  at  the  oars  or  any 
nonsense  of  that  sort. 

Bell  Island,  be  sure,  would  have  laughed  at  those 
who  told  of  a  brave  thing  done  by  women.  Even 
the  reporters  who  came  to  get  some  account  of  it 
were  mocked  to  their  faces.  Was  not  there  news 
enough  that  such  an  affair  should  be  remembered? 


348 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXXII 

ABRAHAM  WESSON  RETURNS  FROM  HIS  HOLIDAY 

OLD  Abraham  Wesson  entered  his  office  in  Old 
Broad  Street  at  ten  o'clock  precisely;  and  having 
hung  his  very  respectable  frock  coat  upon  the  ac- 
customed nail  and  donned  the  alpaca  jacket  which 
his  own  laws  demanded  of  him,  he  glanced  at  the 
pile  of  letters  upon  his  desk  and  rang  for  his  clerk, 
Muller. 

Now,  Abraham  had  been  away  from  London  for 
ten  days,  almost  an  unknown  happening  in  a  life 
which  lacked  event.  Possibly  he  was,  upon  his  re- 
turn, justly  anxious  to  know  how  the  City  had  con- 
tinued to  exist  without  him  and  if  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor still  occupied  the  woolsack.  In  any  case,  he 
awaited  his  confidential  fellow  with  no  little  impa- 
tience, and  when  that  worthy,  Muller,  appeared  he 
plunged  instantly  into  a  maze  of  talk  which  would 
have  been  worse  than  Greek  to  the  layman.  For  it 
was  all  of  acts  and  deeds  and  covenants  and  con- 
veyances; of  actions  impending  and  actions  to  be 
put  down  in  the  list;  of  opinions  upon  this  case  and 
counter-opinions  upon  that;  in  brief,  of  that  exact 
and  yet  befogging  science  by  which,  as  the  philoso- 

349 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

pher  has  told  us,  the  king  decides  'twixt  those  who 
would  do  much  better  to  agree  to  differ. 

Abraham  Wesson  was  not  of  this  opinion.  He 
loved  the  law,  loved  its  mustiness,  its  vellum,  its 
very  sealing  wax.  Human  beings  did  not  exist  for 
him ;  they  were  plaintiffs  or  defendants,  as  the  case 
might  be.  When  he  asked  Muller  if  any  one  had 
called  during  his  absence  he  hardly  expected  to  hear 
a  Christian  name  in  answer.  It  would  be  "Meggs 
versus  Wild,"  or  "Bogg  versus  Knipp,"  or  any  one 
of  the  numerous  cases  which  rarely  failed  to  fill  his 
head  with  shrewd  thoughts  and  his  purse  with 
guineas.  An  exception,  perhaps,  we  should  admit, 
and  that  was  his  reference  to  an  interesting  client  in 
whom  he  had  never  lost  faith.  Had  John  Canning 
called?  He  was  all  ears  when  he  put  this  question 
— the  answer  interested  him  strangely. 

"We  have  heard  nothing,  sir,  since  we  had  the 
order  not  to  proceed  at  the  island." 

"And  there's  no  news  of  him  in  any  of  the  pa- 
pers?" 

"Except  as  to  what  happened  to  the  ship  at  Bell 
Island,  sir." 

"To  what  ship  ?    What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

Muller  sighed,  but  was  not  surprised.  Old  Abra- 
ham rarely  knew  anything  of  the  day's  news.  He 
could  tell  you  which  party  was  in  office  and  how 
England  lost  yearly  by  buying  foreign  wheat,  but 

350 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

in  other  matters  he  was  as  guileless  as  a  child.  Let 
a  man  speak  of  a  new  hotel  in  Piccadilly,  of  sport 
at  Ranelagh  or  at  Lords,  of  an  earthquake  in  the 
Pacific,  or  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  and  Abraham 
would  stare  at  him  resentfully.  Why  talk  of  these 
things  when  "Mole  versus  Burrow"  was  before  the 
courts  ?  Were  men  mad  to  fuddle  their  brains  with 
such  trivialities  ? 

So  here  was  Muller  telling  the  old  fellow  the 
whole  story  of  it,  how  that  the  ship  had  struck  upon 
the  Spanish  reef ;  how  many  of  the  seamen  had  been 
rescued  by  a  lifeboat  which  the  women  rowed;  how 
there  had  been  brave  but  futile  efforts  to  raise  the 
wreck,  the  whole  story  in  short  as  we  know  it,  but 
as  Abraham  Wesson  heard  it  for  the  first  time  upon 
that  November  morning. 

"Astonishing!"  he  exclaimed,  "and  these  things 
cost  the  nation  more  than  half  a  million,  to  say 
nothing  of  what  we  pay  to  the  foreigners.  I  won- 
der that  Canning  was  away  from  home  at  such  a 
time ;  he's  missed  a  great  opportunity.  Do  you  say 
that  nothing  has  been  heard  from  the  place  at  all  ?" 

"I  won't  say  that,  sir — a  young  lady  has  called." 

"A  young  lady — why,  who  would  she  be?" 

Muller  shook  his  head. 

"She  would  leave  no  name,  sir.  She  wished  to 
see  you  alone.  It's  about  Canning's  affairs,  though, 
for  she  told  me  so." 


THE  FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

Abraham  was  doubtful.  The  Law  does  not  love 
young  ladies  who  frequent  lawyers'  offices — unless 
they  come  as  plaintiffs.  This  might  be  anything 
from  blackmail  downward.  He  hoped  that  Muller 
had  not  been  foolish. 

"You  didn't  give  Mr.  Canning's  address  or  any 
nonsense  of  that  sort?" 

"Oh  no,  sir,  I  am  not  quite  so  foolish  as  that." 

"That's  right,  that's  right — never  give  an  address 
to  a  woman — it's  dangerous,  it's  most  dangerous." 

Muller  answered  that  he  supposed  it  was,  and, 
being  a  married  man,  he  could  speak  with  some 
conviction.  His  further  observations,  however, 
were  arrested  by  the  appearance  of  a  small  boy  in 
the  office,  a  red-haired,  impudent  youth  who  knocked 
upon  the  door  with  the  fist  of  Vulcan  and  spoke 
with  the  accents  of  Stratford-atte-Bow. 

"The  lidy  agen,"  was  all  he  said— even  Abraham 
understood  that. 

"Would  it  be  the  girl  herself?"  he  asked  Muller. 
The  clerk  replied  that  he  thought  it  must  be  so,  for 
this  was  the  hour  at  which  she  had  presented  her- 
self hitherto. 

"Then  I'll  see  her  at  once — don't  let  me  be  inter- 
rupted." 

And  so  he  met  Jesse  of  the  Pharos  for  the  first 
time — grown  so  much  older  these  latter  days,  but 
losing  nothing  of  her  natural  beauty,  and  carrying 

352 


THE   FORTUNATE  PRISONER 

herself  with  such  dignity  that  even  the  lawyer  could 
admit  it.  "Ha,"  said  the  old  rogue,  "so  this  is  what 
he  wanted  with  that  bit  of  a  rock  in  the  Bristol 
Channel — well,  I  might  have  known  it,  I  might 
have  known  it." 

Outwardly,  to  be  sure,  he  was  all  bustling  polite- 
ness and  bending  humility.  Thirty  years  ago  he 
had  known  weaknesses  of  this  kind  himself — and 
he  could  still  dust  a  chair  and  set  a  table  for  a  lady 
with  any  lawyer  in  the  neighborhood.  Jesse  thought 
him  an  odd  old  man.  She  had  always  been  taught 
by  her  father  to  dread  the  Law — but  who  could  be 
afraid  of  this? 

"I  am  Jesse  Fearney,  the  daughter  of  Japhon 
Fearney,  of  the  Home  Farm  upon  Bell  Island,"  she 
said  quietly;  "my  purpose  in  coming  to  London  is 
to  meet  Mr.  John  Canning  and  to  bring  him  some 
news  of  great  importance."  The  old  lawyer  nodded 
his  head.  Strangely  enough  he  was  listening,  but 
ill.  Some  memory  of  what  he  had  been  reading  in 
the  newspaper  concerning  the  wreck  of  the  Mara- 
thon, some  vague  idea  that  the  nation  had  been 
honoring  a  woman's  name  and  that  this  woman  sat 
before  him,  occurred  to  him  despite  other  interests. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  lifting  up  the  sheet  as  he 
spoke,  "but  before  we  speak  of  other  matters,  may 
I  ask  you  if  you  are  the  Miss  Fearney  mentioned 
here?" 

353 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  Of  small  concern 
to  her  had  any  newspaper  been  since  she  arrived, 
friendless,  in  this  great  city,  seeking  but  one  of  all 
its  millions,  hoping  but  to  one  end  during  all  the 
dark  days.  Oh,  be  sure  Jesse  knew  nothing  of  the 
newspapers. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  she  stammered ; 
"but  I  am  the  only  Jesse  Fearney  on  Bell  Island." 

"Then  I  am  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
young  lady;  I  consider  it  an  honor  that  you  should 
come  to  this  office." 

She  knew  not  what  he  meant.  How  different 
from  the  lawyers  of  whom  her  poor  father  had 
spoken !  This  old  man  surely  would  listen  patiently 
to  her. 

"I  came  to  you,"  she  said,  "to  tell  you  that  the 
father  of  the  late  Lieutenant  Blake,  whose  son  was 
drowned  in  the  accident,  knows  something  which 
may  be  of  great  service  to  Mr.  Canning.  I  went  to 
the  Castle,  but  there  is  no  one  there  who  could  help 
me.  My  father  is  also  away,  and  so  I  thought  it 
best  to  come  to  you." 

"Then  you  had  heard  of  me,  Miss  Fearney?" 

"Indeed,  no.  I  learned  your  name  by  reading  my 
father's  correspondence — in  his  absence." 

He  regarded  her  with  open  admiration. 

"And  so  you  put  two  and  two  together  and  came 
to  London.  That  was  a  very  brave  thing  to  do." 

354 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"It  was  a  very  obvious  thing  to  do,  Mr.  Wesson." 

He  liked  that,  liked  this  pretty  child  in  every 
mood.  True  she  had  discovered  a  mare's  nest,  he 
thought,  and  he  doubted  if  any  mere  desire  to  help 
John  Canning  with  information  had  carried  her  to 
London.  "She  is  in  love  with  him,  and  here  will  be 
a  story,"  he  said,  and  so  he  temporized  still. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed  presently,  "I  don't  know 
where  Mr.  Canning  is  at  present,  though  I  don't 
suppose  it  will  be  long  before  I  see  him  again.  You, 
I  suppose,  are  returning  immediately?" 

"Indeed,  no ;  I  am  going  to  Belgium." 

"To  Belgium?" 

"Yes,  to  find  my  father,  who,  I  have  reason  to 
suppose,  is  living  there." 

Wesson  opened  his  eyes  at  this.  Fearney— 
Fearney,  where  had  that  name  occurred  to  him  in 
connection  with  things  appertaining  to  the  Law? 
Ah,  he  remembered  it.  Was  not  there  a  Fearney 
wanted  by  the  police  in  connection  with  the  frauds 
at  Barnstaple?  Impossible  to  believe  that  this  was 
the  man  whose  daughter  sat  before  him. 

"Are  you  leaving  London  immediately,  Miss 
Fearney?" 

"I  propose  to  go  to-morrow — if  you  will  give  me 
your  promise  that  my  message  shall  be  sent  to  Mr. 
Canning  to-day." 

"It  shall  be  sent  upon  the  first  possible  oppor- 

355 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

tunity.  Meanwhile,  should  anything  occur,  is  there 
no  address  which  will  find  you?" 

She  hesitated  an  instant — a  flush  of  color  suffus- 
ing her  cheeks. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  do  not  wish  to  leave  my 
address.  I  prefer  to  trust  to  your  interest  in  Mr. 
Canning  and  his  affairs." 

And  this  was  all.  Neither  argument  nor  cajolery 
could  move  that  simple,  stately  girl,  who  treated  this 
old  man  with  such  dignity  and  defied  him  by  her 
candor.  "She  did  not  wish  to  leave  her  address." 
Another  would  have  made  excuses,  the  old  fellow 
said,  as  he  bowed  her  down  the  stairs  and  opened 
the  private  door  for  her  with  his  own  hands.  And 
she,  if  the  papers  were  to  be  believed,  was  little 
short  of  a  national  heroine — whom  the  country 
would  honor  if  it  could.  A  strange  affair  indeed — 
a  fine  mystery  to  greet  him  upon  his  return. 

Very  slowly  and  full  of  thought  he  climbed  the 
office  stairs  again  and  rang  his  bell.  When  Muller 
appeared  he  gave  that  imperturbable  fellow  some 
earnest,  almost  vehement,  instructions  in  a  tone  and 
with  a  manner  quite  foreign  to  him. 

"We  must  find  Canning,"  he  cried  in  a  voice 
grown  hoarse  with  its  own  energies;  "find  him  at 
any  cost.  Send  telegrams  everywhere — to  his  ho- 
tels, to  Bell  Island,  to  Mr.  Hobby's  office.  I  have 
urgent  news — it  will  not  wait." 

356 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — but  I  think  that's  Mr. 
Canning  now — I  hear  his  voice  downstairs." 

Abraham  Wesson  listened  with  ear  intent.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  it.  John  Canning,  newly  re- 
turned from  France,  had  come  straight  to  Old 
Broad  Street  to  hear  the  lawyer's  news  and  to  re- 
late his  own. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  the  old  lawyer,  "and  I 
have  let  the  woman  go.  Run  after  her,  Muller — > 
fetch  her  back — she  can't  be  twenty  steps  away." 
He  danced  with  excitement,  frothed  with  the  inten- 
tions of  pursuit;  but  the  clerk,  snatching  up  a  hat 
at  hazard,  ran  straight  into  John  Canning's  arms. 


357 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 
CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  PRISONER  IS  TO  BET  CALLED  FORTUNATE 

A  QUESTION  from  the  impetuous  traveler  to  the 
agitated  clerk  extorted  the  information  that  Jesse 
Fearney  had  just  called  at  the  office,  and  had  left  it 
but  two  minutes  at  the  most. 

"I  am  running  after  her,  sir,"  the  amiable  Muller 
declared. 

"Then  I'll  come  with  you,"  said  John  Canning, 
and  he  turned  and  left  the  office  regardless  of  old 
Abraham  Wesson,  who  was  calling  him  at  the 
stairs  head. 

Which  way  had  she  gone  ?  Which  of  all  those  per- 
plexing streets  would  she  have  followed?  How 
well  Canning  knew  them  all!  Had  not  they  been 
the  scenes  of  his  triumph  in  the  old  days  ?  Was  not 
it  here  that  Fortune  smiled  upon  and  mocked  him 
in  turn?  And  now  he  followed  them  as  a  man 
possessed — followed  neither  riches  nor  fame,  but 
just  a  face  of  his  dreams,  blindly,  as  one  who  be- 
lieved that  this  was  his  goal,  this  the  master  key 
of  the  Fate  which  had  so  long  derided  him. 

She  would  have  gone  toward  the  Exchange,  he 
358 


THE   FORTUNATE,   PRISONER 

said.  Naturally  her  lodging  would  be  somewhere 
in  the  West  End  of  London — and  she  would  make 
for  the  Mansion  House.  It  was  a  torture  to  think 
that  she  might  escape  him  after  all,  that  the  quest 
was  futile  at  the  best,  and  that  a  man  might  as  well 
look  to  pick  a  diamond  from  the  stones  as  to  dis- 
cover her  in  that  press.  None  the  less  he  hurried 
on,  a  figure  to  be  remarked  and  laughed  at — bare- 
headed, running,  scanning  every  face,  fretting  at 
all  delay — hoping,  believing  always.  When  he 
came  to  the  corner  of  Threadneedle  Street,  to  the 
door  of  the  house  which  had  expelled  him  with  ig- 
nominy, he  must  stand  a  while  and  curse  his  luck. 
What  a  vast  concourse  of  people  now  forbade  him 
to  pass !  He  heard  a  great  sound  as  of  many  voices 
cheering,  he  was  carried  on  by  the  mob  despite  his 
endeavor  to  free  himself.  What  a  fretting  throng 
here  was  gathered  together,  laughing,  cheering, 
leaping,  man  upon  the  shoulders  of  man!  Old 
knowledge  told  him  that  some  crisis  had  happened, 
some  news  come  to  hand  to  move  the  markets  to 
this  frenzy.  But  he  must  pass,  whatever  it  was — he 
implored  them  to  let  him  through. 

They  told  him,  many  voices  speaking  together. 

"Don't  you  know,"  they  said,  "that's  Jesse  Fear- 
ney  who  took  the  lifeboat.  Cheer,  man,  cheer — 
have  you  no  heart?" 

He  stood  quite  still  now  and  listened  to  the  cries 

359 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

as  to  some  music  from  a  distant  shore.  Of  course 
they  would  act  in  this  way.  Some  one  had  pointed 
her  out,  he  said — perhaps  one  of  the  boys  in  the 
office.  She  had  been  followed  from  Old  Broad 
Street,  the  news  flashing  from  mouth  to  mouth — 
"Yonder  goes  Jesse  Fearney,  who  took  the  lifeboat 
out."  And  now  these  good  fellows  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  had  made  her  their  prisoner  and  were 
showering  gifts  upon  her. 

Ah,  what  madness,  and  yet  what  well-meant  mad- 
ness! How  big  men  dance  and  yell  like  children! 
Merchants,  brokers,  jobbers — you  may  put  them  all 
in  the  same  boat.  They  are  remembering  their 
birthright  and  honoring  Jesse  of  the  Pharos.  One 
snatches  a  great  diamond  pin  from  his  scarf  and 
thrusts  it  into  the  fur  of  her  boa;  others  run  into  a 
neighboring  jeweler's  shop  and  bring  out  diamonds 
in  their  hands ;  there  is  not  a  flower  stall  within  two 
hundred  yards  that  is  not  gutted  by  feverish  hands. 
Oh,  rich  is  their  opportunity  to  prove  themselves 
children  of  the  great  heritage  of  the  sea !  They  will 
bear  this  image  of  brave  womanhood  aloft,  wor- 
shiping in  their  rough  psalmody  which  is  none  the 
worse  for  its  city  rhythm.  "Jesse,  Jesse  of  the 
Pharos!"  they  cried.  And  the  shout  is  taken  up 
and  echoes  in  far  streets,  and  thousands  press  in  to 
the  shrine,  and  thousands  upon  the  outskirts  bewail 
their  isolation. 

360 


THE  FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

She  was  very  pale  through  it  all;  understanding 
their  meaning  but  vaguely,  and  greatly  frightened 
by  their  devotion.  Presently  she  fell  to  weeping, 
and  this  disconcerted  them.  Ashamed  and  afraid, 
she  begged  them  to  let  her  go,  and  in  the  pause  at- 
tending, John  Canning  fought  his  way  to  her  side. 
Ah,  that  was  a  rendezvous  indeed,  and  the  City  will 
tell  you  of  it  as  a  sacred  thing — the  hatless,  dishev- 
eled, breathless  man,  his  coat  half  gone  from  his 
back,  his  face  crimson,  his  arms  outstretched,  and 
before  him  the  amazed  Jesse — knowing  not  what  to 
say  or  to  do,  but  a  very  picture  of  girlish  beauty  in 
her  distress. 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart  and,  some  one  recog- 
nizing him,  the  name  of  John  Canning  was  passed 
from  lip  to  lip.  Presently  a  fellow  bolder  than  the 
others  raised  a  cheer,  and  this  was  quickly  taken 
up.  Well  did  the  House  know  now  that  this  man 
had  been  unjustly  accused  and  unjustly  convicted. 
They  would  begrudge  nothing  of  such  a  moment  as 
this,  deny  him  no  admission,  withhold  from  him  no 
just  tribute.  And  they  cheered  him  roundly, 
cheered  when  he  caught  Jesse  in  his  arms,  cheered 
when  he  lifted  her  to  a  cab,  raced  after  them  still 
cheering  until  the  vast  traffic  enveloped  them  and  the 
cab  was  lost  in  its  vortex. 

Now,  Canning  had  given  the  driver  of  the  cab  a 
direction  at  hazard,  and  for  a  little  while  the  man 

361 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

drove  wildly,  enjoying  the  humors  of  pursuit  and 
understanding  the  situation  perfectly.  When,  how- 
ever, they  had  passed  the  Mansion  House  and  come 
almost  to  St.  Paul's,  he  ventured  to  ask  for  a  direc- 
tion and  was  astonished  to  hear  that  he  was  to  drive 
to  the  Carlton  Hotel. 

"We  must  stop  there  until  I  find  out  where  your 
father  is,"  Canning  said  to  Jesse,  when  he  had 
spoken  to  the  man.  "All  the  news  seems  to  say 
that  he  is  with  Count  Gabrielle  in  Bruges — you 
know,  of  course,  that  the  Count's  launch  picked  him 
up,  after  all.  There  is  not  another  man  in  the  Bris- 
tol Channel  who  would  have  come  through  that 
night  safely,  Jesse." 

She  said  that  she  thought  it  must  be  so,  and  that 
some  instinct  had  told  her  from  the  first  that  all  was 
well  with  her  father.  Very  quiet,  sobbing  a  little 
still,  she  sat  by  his  side  and  heard  him  as  some  com- 
forter sent  by  a  miracle  to  her  side.  Whither  or 
why,  she  did  not  ask.  What  woman  would  have 
done  otherwise  at  such  an  hour? 

"We  shall  find  your  father  and  bring  him  back 
with  us.  I  hear  from  Scotland  Yard  that  the  Holly 
Angus  affair  is  all  rubbish,  and  the  rest  is  a  matter 
of  money,  Jesse.  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so.  I  am  glad 
to  be  able  to  tell  you  this  with  conviction." 

She  answered  him  with  averted  face  that  her 
father  was  a  poor  man  and  would  never  be  able  to 

362 


THE   FORTUNATE   PRISONER 

pay  such  a  fine  as  the  Government  would  demand. 
But  here  for  the  first  time  he  laughed  at  her. 

"Do  you  not  know  that  I  am  rich,  little  girl?" 

"My  father  would  never  let  any  one  else  help 
him." 

"Oh,  Jesse,  Jesse — what  will  he  not  do  for  the 
daughter  he  loves?  Are  we  not  going  to  him  to- 
gether ?" 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  head 
down  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Six  months  ago,"  he  said,  "you  promised  me 
that  you  would  not  forget — have  you  forgotten  to- 
day, Jesse?" 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Some  who  passed  them 
by  laughed  as  they  went — but  Canning,  forgetting 
all  the  world,  stooped  and  kissed  her  lips. 

Ah,  this  London — it  had  given  him  fortune  after 
all,  then. 

For  here  was  the  Master  Key,  which  vainly  he 
had  sought  and,  finding,  would  not  surrender  to 
his  life's  end. 


THE  END 


363 


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HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

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Dwellers,"  etc.  A  breezy,  western  ranch  story.  It  sparkles 
in  reproducing  the  atmosphere  of  the  West.  Strong  heart 
interest  and  a  beautifully  pictured  love  story  make  it  a  most 
charming  book  and  a  fit  companion  to  "Chip"  and  "The 
Range  Dwellers."  12rno,  cloth  bound,  with  illustrations  in 
three  colors,  $1.25. 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS 

By  B.  M.  Bower,  author  of  "Chip  of  the  Flying  U,"  "Her  Prairie 
Knight,"  "The  Range  Dwellers,"  etc.  A  living,  breathing 
story  of  the  West,  out  beyond  the  Mississippi,  where  the  trails 
of  men  are  dim  and  far  apart.  This  is  the  best  story  that  the 
author  of  "Chip  of  the  Flying  U  "  has  written,  and  the  three 
full-page  three-color  drawings,  and  over  thirty  pen  and  ink  mar- 
ginal pictures  by  Charles  M.  Russell  (the  cowboy  artist),  with 
which  the  book  is  embellished,  make  it  a  handsome  book. 
12mo,  cloth  bound,  decorative  cover,  $1.50. 

WHERE  THE  RED  VOLLEYS  POURED.    A  Romance 
of  the  Civil  War 

By  Charles  W.  Dahlinger.  The  patriotism,  chivalry,  and  romance 
of  the  most  eventful  period  in  American  history,  vividly 
presented  in  the  character  and  experiences  of  a  typical  soldier 
of  the  time — Paul  Didier,  a  German  revolutionary  exile,  who 
enlists  in  the  Union  cause.  The  story  begins  with  reminiscence 
of  the  same  nature  and  in  the  same  charming  vein  as  Carl 
Schurz's  recent  autobiography.  It  insidiously  develops  into  a 
love  romance,  which  is  complicated  by  the  hero's  provoking 
susceptibility  to  feminine  charms.  A  solution  is  finally  reached 
amid  the  thunders  of  Gettysburg,  a  battle  which  the  author 
describes  with  the  pen  of  a  duvnatic  historian.  12mo,  doth, 

fl.5O 


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NOVl  o  198S 


